


croisés, écartés, entrelacés

by GwenChan



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 1900s, Alternate Universe - 1900s, Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ballet Dancer Katsuki Yuuri, Ballet Dancer Victor Nikiforov, Dancing, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Historical Accuracy, Historical References, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Rating May Change, Romance, Russian Empire, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-01-25 15:19:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 122,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12534796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwenChan/pseuds/GwenChan
Summary: St. Petersburg, the early 1900s. Yuuri has left everything behind to follow his dream and Victor is the city’s darling. Both danseurs at Mariinsky theatre, their paths continually intertwine as they are fated to meet again and again. However, as love blooms, looming shadows of war lie in wait.





	1. Le danseur d'argent

**Le danseur d’argent**

A dim-lit parlour echoed with the sound of a bark-like laugh. It was mid-afternoon. Mid-October sunrays filtering through the cracks left by the heavy, honey-coloured, brocaded curtains traced the profiles of two men. They were sitting at a small, round table with curved legs ending in lion-feet. Its centre was occupied by a boiling, inlaid, silver-plated samovar. On the white linen tablecloth, two glasses of fine crystal stood next to two porcelain teacups decorated with a delicate fantasy of flying birds. A series of pastries from one of the most famous bakeries in town were neatly arranged on a plate from the same dining set. 

The host, Aleksey Nikiforov, poured a generous amount of rich red wine for his oldest friend. Mikhail Babichev grabbed his drink and leaned back in the plush armchair with a satisfied huff, asking, “My dear Lyosha, I see you’re happy today. Is your business doing well?”

“Not at all,” the other replied. “Business is bad as usual, people change tastes like nobility with cutlery.”

“Then why are you so happy, my dear, if I may ask,” the first man inquired, drinking his wine with few, long swallows, not interested in tasting the fine alcohol.

Aleksey Nikiforov quirked an eyebrow before such boorish behaviour. It was an expensive wine, a fine bottle he had saved for a special occasion. Still, nothing could stain his happiness on this day. He took a sip, complimenting himself for such a nice choice.

“Because after nine long years my son’s finally coming home, my dear Misha.”

“How old is he now?” Mikhail wondered, brow furrowed in a silent calculation.

“Twenty-seven in two months,” Aleksey replied with pride. “He should be back before the beginning of the winter.”

Mikhail hummed his approval, stretching out a fat hand to grab a buttery pastry from the plate. He swallowed it in one bit, crumbles sticking to his plump lips and chin. Ivan, his eldest son, was a year younger, about to end his military conscription. 

“Paris must have educated him well,” he considered out loud, showering his words with another glass of wine Aleksey had been kind enough to pour.

“Indeed. I’m afraid we will appear rude by comparison. His teachers say he’s impulsive, but with a good heart. Exquisite like a Faberge egg, my friend. I hope to see him soon on a stage here in our dear city,” Aleksey beamed.

“Would he be alone?”

Aleksey shook his head in denial. “In his latest letter, he talked about a friend coming with him. I’ve already told our housekeeper Alina to prepare the guest room.”

In the letter, Victor had assured the arrangement would be temporary, but Aleksey knew his son too well to be fooled. After all, staying in Paris for nine years wasn’t in the initial plan; but critics’ enthusiastic reviews about Victor’s dancing had travelled all the way to St. Petersburg and any of Aleksey’s intentions of reprimanding his son for staying away so long all but disappeared. Now the only thing he cared about was to welcome him back with all the due honours. 

After some reflection, Aleksey had come to the conclusion that the best way to welcome his son back was to throw a party. If Aleksey could still pride himself to know Victor, he was sure the effort would be appreciated. 

“Have you, by any chance, business to attend today?” he asked his guest, who was at his third glass of wine, his cheeks and nose painted red. 

“Only a dinner in the late evening.”

“Then I would be more than honoured if you could grant me the pleasure of your company today. I have to organize a party and time isn’t on our side,” Aleksei affirmed, getting up from his seat, brushing the creases from his shirt. Mikhail did the same, letting fall on the floor a shower of pastry crumbles.

“It would be a pleasure.” 

“Wonderful,” Aleksei guided Mikhail to the door, taking the coat from the coat rack on the way. 

“By any chance, how are Ljuda [1] and Vanya? And what about little Dima?”

An hour later found them walking down the Nevsky Prospect, their autumn coats unbuttoned and swirling in the gentle wind. St. Petersburg principal street was a vibrant and continuous endless stream of people of various social status, each rushing to their errands.

Aleksey was holding a leash at the other side of which a brown poodle was attached. Makkachin belonged to Victor, a gift for his fourthteenth birthday. Victor never missed an opportunity in his letters home to say how much he would like to have the dog with him in France. However, he also knew too well his life would leave him little time to care for the poodle. Looking at Makkachin sniffing the ground, Aleksey wondered if dogs had the same sense of time as humans or if in their mind a minute wasn’t different from a century. 

Aleksey summoned Makkachin to his feet with a gentle tug of the leash. The poodle was well trained and moments later he was sitting before the man, head a bit tilted on a side in anticipation. Aleksey crouched to scratch him under the chin, before freeing him from the leash. The instant the poodle understood there wasn’t something holding him anymore, he shot down the street, running in a zigzag pattern to avoid the people. Here and there he rushed back to Aleksey and forward again. “Full of energy as ever!” Mikhail commented as Makkachin ran back and forth with the joy of a puppy despite being already old of age.

Aleksey nodded, a soft smile on his lips.

“I guess it’s enough exercise for today!” 

He whistled to attire the dog attention. In no time the animal was next to his legs. Aleksey pondered reattaching Makkachin to the leash but seeing how quietly the poodle walked at his side, his pace in line with theirs, he changed his mind.

Several were the things to consider when preparing a party, especially for people like Aleksey, for whom society’s judgment was lying in waiting, ready to point out any failure. There was a thin line between grandiose and kitsch, simplicity and stinginess, prodigality and show-off, and Aleksey walked on it like a well-trained tight-rope walker. Following the train of his thoughts, he came to a stop right before a shop with a façade painted in light blue whose insignia announced that the business had been active for three generations. Aleksey knew the typography’s owners personally and their work had always been nothing but impeccable. In addition to print invitations and cards to perfection, they also provide precious consultancy about which font or decoration was better to give the best impression. 

“I’m sorry, but you can’t enter,” Aleksey apologized, blocking Makkachin’s path to the door. The dog huffed, but let the man tie him and secure the leash around a lamp post. 

After the typography, Aleksey and Mikhail visited a tailor to commission a new suit for the former, who had provided the shop with half the fabrics exposed. Afterward, a restaurant to decide the menu. A flower shop because a home without flowers was a gloomy one and Aleksey wanted the party to be as joyful as possible. And a bakery to discuss what kind of cakes and other sweets delight the guests with.

The sun had long set behind the horizon when Aleksey and Mikhail parted their ways. 

***

_“Aleksey Nikiforov requires the pleasure of your company at the party to celebrate his son’s homecoming, on the 4th December from 10 pm._

_The party will be in mask_

_A light buffet will be served.”_

Yuuri read those few lines, still sure his eyes were playing tricks on him. A week after having found the invitation in his mailbox, he still couldn’t wrap his head around the idea. Every danseur and ballerina who had been featured in the latest season, no matter if for a solo or a background role, had been invited as well. Despite a tendency to diminish his worth, Yuuri was one of them. 

The golden trimmed envelope resting on his lap was proof that his exhibition as a townsfolk in Coppelia hadn't gone unnoticed; as was the brief critique some personality had written on his performance. Yuuri still conserved the blurb with religious care, finding a support in its mild praise and a push toward improvement in its reprimand, when other motivation came to a halt. He hated to admit it, but his dancing had suffered from the distraction caused by the invitation. If being invited to a casual party was enough to make Yuuri sweat, being invited to a party by the Nikiforov’s was almost unreal. 

Aleksey Nikiforov was a rich, if not the richest, merchant of fabrics in town; a wealthy and eccentric man. Despite not having thrown one in years, his parties were still notorious in greatness and amusement. No surprise that this one would be a masquerade.

As far as Yuuri knew, Aleksey had lost his beloved wife when their only son, Victor, was still a baby. Now an adult Victor was coming home after a decade spent in far France and Aleksey had found new youth. 

Yuuri let out a long sigh, falling on his back on the hard, cold floor of his minuscule apartment. He pressed the invitation to his chest. 

Victor Nikiforov had been his idol since his childhood. 

He regretted not having friends in town of whom he could ask advice. He had some acquaintances and people with whom he was on courteous terms in the Ballet company, but nothing more than a superficial connaissance. It was in times like this that a pang of nostalgia shot right through his heart, often strong enough to break a few tears at the corner of his eyes. Had the invitation arrived earlier, he would’ve written a letter to his sister in Japan asking what to do. Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough time before the party. Yuuri sat and the invitation fluttered on the floor. He curled his toes, arched his feet, and bent his body forward, indulging in the burning stretch until his nose brushed against his thighs, right above the knees. 

His older sister Mari would tell him to grasp the opportunity. If nothing, attending a fancy party would provide him with new acquaintances - Yuuri had yet to find a patron - and good food. If he could exchange a few words with Victor, all the better. 

Yuuri put his heels one against the other in butterfly stretch, hands pressing down on his thighs. He focused on his body and breathing. Being a danseur in St. Petersburg was an unforgiving job. Being a foreigner from a country the Russian Empire was on shaky terms was worse. Combining the two as a Japanese danseur at Mariinsky theatre resulted in pure hell. 

Or in an ill-feeling so strong Yuuri often crumbled under the pressure, a vortex of thoughts in his mind that made him physically sick.

Only a few days prior he had flubbed another audition for a major role, resulting in him being given a background one out of pity. According to former Bolshoi Prima Lilia Baranovskaya, Yuuri had all the capacities to sustain a solo on stage. His technique was good, albeit still not perfect. His sense of rhythm was remarkable, the passion he instilled in dancing almost palpable. What Yuuri lacked was confidence, which would’ve prevented his throat from itching and his vision from blurring the instant he was pushed from the wings onto the stage.

When Yuuri finished his stretching routine an hour later, he was drenched in sweat and his muscles were familiarly sore. He checked the bandage on his feet, though pain hardly came from them anymore. The oldest blisters had long turned into callouses, with new and harder skin where blights once were. His toes were pressed together, bent outward to better accommodate the ballet slippers. His toenails were long lost. 

He peered at his pocket watch, a nice albeit humble object, which was a gift from an unknown admirer. The hands signed almost seven. Outside the small window, the sun had already set, pre-announcing the St. Petersburg long winter. Inside the room, Yuuri’s stomach grumbled. It made him think about how it was better to reflect on certain things with a full belly. Surging to his feet, he also felt the urgent need for a good wash.

In a copper bucket on the stove was the water he had fetched before, cold in a way he would never get used to. He crouched, opened the stove’s front door, and checked the still warm coals inside, red gleaming among black. Moving them with the poker he weighed the possibility of igniting a small fire. In the end, Yuuri decided against the plan. The coal left was little, not enough to make water boil, and would be of better use in a warming pan during the cold night. 

Yuuri tried not to think excessively about not being able to wash right now, as at least there were always the public bathhouses. When he had first been hit with the novelty of a new, strange culture, the baths were a soothing element, a bliss to smother nostalgia from his own homeland. If _banyi_ had provided a nice substitution for the hot springs to which Yuuri was used to in Japan, there were several other habits he was forced to abandon when he left his home country swearing he wouldn’t look back. Sometimes his native town fluctuated in his dreams like a faded painting, the people he loved who still lived there little more than ghosts. If it hadn’t been for the sepia photographs Mari included in her letters with pictures of the scenery or family portrait or of some celebrations, Yuuri would have forgotten his parents’ faces.

His stomach grumbled again. Yuuri pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead and groaned. 

Normally he would’ve cooked cabbage, but his pantry was empty because he had been too busy to do errands. The thought of having to eat out filled him with guilt. Not only did it cost him the money he would prefer to save for other necessities, but it risked breaking his strict diet. He also needed to buy more coal and the nearest place selling it was on the other side of town. Yuuri divested his sweaty shirt for a clean one, after having patted his body with a towel, and stuck his feet in a pair of boots. Sat on the edge of the bed, he noticed the invitation still on the floor, the golden details shining in the poor light. A little smile blossomed on his face, picking the paper up and placing it in the first bedside table drawer, like a small sunray in an otherwise gloomy day.

Meanwhile, in another part of the city, a loaded carriage was halting on Malaya Konyushennaya Ulitsa [2].

A male voice called and Aleksey rushed down the stairs as fast as his body, not so young anymore, allowed him. He also summoned a valet he had hired to collect his son and his friend’ luggage. Victor had made no secret of having indulged in shopping and the dimension of his glossy new trunk proved his words.

“The other luggage will arrive in a week,” Victor commented, stepping down out the carriage with a long, graceful step.

“It’s good to see you in good health, father. Let me introduce you a dear friend of mine, Christophe Giacometti.”

Christophe Giacometti was Swiss, two years Victor’s junior, and able to rival him when ballet was involved.

“But he’s far more expert in the art of seducing a suitor, whether female or male,” Victor pointed out, wrapping an arm around the other’s shoulders.

Aleksey gave himself a moment to examine the man, eyes squeezed in paternal disappointment. However, Giacometti must have passed his examination, as Aleksey eventually melted into a sincere laugh. 

“It’ll be a pleasure to have you as our guest. I’m curious to know what your programs will be here in St. Petersburg, but I imagine you must be tired from the long journey. And I’m looking forward to talking with my Viten’ka.” Aleksey ordered the valet to escort Giacometti to his room and to provide him with all necessary for a pleasant stay.

“Dinner's at seven thirty. Tomorrow a stroll down the Nevsky is a must.”

Once alone with Victor, Aleksey dropped at once any etiquette to hug his son in a tight embrace. Victor had taken after his mother, the same eyes and the way his upper lip shaped when he smiled out of pure joy. He hardly showed any sign of the fatigue derived from being a professional danseur. His smile and moderate gestures softened the stiffness of his body. Any further conversation was interrupted by a flash of brown fur and Victor found himself on the icy pavement, a lolling tongue a hair from his cheeks.

“Makkachin missed you a lot,” Aleksey clarified, as the dog lavished his owner in licks and slobbery kisses.

“I’ve missed you too, my friend,” Victor cooed, crouching to scratch the dog behind the ears. When the canine welcome feast was over. Makkachin waved his tail in approval

“Just like Argo,” laughed Aleksey. “But you’re a lucky dog, your master has been kind enough to return when you aren’t yet on the verge of death!” He threw Victor a glance with a shadow of a scold that didn’t last.

“Let's go inside,” Aleksey invited, following with his eyes Makkachin who was already jumping up the stairs. “There’s so much you have to tell me.”

***

Another week later, Yuuri was counting the exact number of kopeks[3] to pay the omnibus ride. He had spent the journey sandwiched between a giant with a flowing black beard and two moustaches standing proudly upwards and an old _babushka_ without a single tooth, who had sputtered her hello before taking her departure. Yuuri wiped his face with a clean handkerchief. 

Cold, unforgiving air bit the exposed skin above his coat collar. Yuuri buried his hands in his pockets. Russian winter was among the things he had yet to get used to. 

Stepping down the omnibus to walk the rest of the way to the Nikiforov’s house, he had a taste of the other guests. Most of them were rich bourgeois in fur-trimmed coats and embroidered dresses. Yuuri felt lame by comparison. The suit he was wearing was well sewed, but old-fashioned even by Russian standards, Yuuri having commissioned it soon after having arrived in Russia. On the bright side, he hadn’t sprung much in height since then, which would’ve made the suit unusable. Yuuri patted the right side of his belly, an internal pocket above the hip, where he had tugged both the invitation and a mask he had borrowed from the theatre’s costumes. Its black and ivory decorations complemented his complexion well. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, which were safely tucked into one of the jacket's pockets, and his surroundings were blurry and dulled. Luckily, his vision was not poor enough to make this a real problem. A valet at the door was checking the invitations. Yuuri handed over his, hands twisting in his lap. With a nod of his head the valet moved aside to let him pass. A few steps and Yuuri was swallowed by a dazzling confusion of laughter, chatting and glasses being clinked together in celebration. Another valet pointed to a closet, explaining it was a wardrobe where the guests could leave their coats if they wished. Most of them already had, given the balmy temperature of the room, both from a crackling fireplace and the body heat coming from all the people being pressed into the limited space. Yuuri did too.

Aleksey Nikiforov had invited half of St. Petersburg. Nikiforovs’ salon wasn’t big enough to host them all, but a that wasn’t preventing people from having a good time. Cushioned-chairs in burgundy velvet had been pushed against the papered walls to obtain extra space. A crystal chandelier hung from a plastered ceiling. A phonograph diffused low music in the air, a pleasant background for all the chatting. Three well-dressed valets twirled around with trays full of champagne flutes or _zakuski_ [4] guests grabbed in between a chat and a laugh from a good joke. Because of the lack of space, there would not be any supper, like in British tradition, but from what Yuuri could see, no-one was bothered by the change of plans.

Victor was the centre of all attention, dressed in European fashion with a crisp white shirt under a pebble grey waistcoat and matching trousers. He was indulging in small talk and similar pleasantries with his fingers curled around the stem of a wine glass. He wore a silver mask to match the colour of his short hair, but it didn’t make him any less recognisable. Little was left of the androgynous danseur who charmed Yuuri all those years ago. Victor was a man now, in every fibre of his elegant body, with broad shoulders and slim waist. He would soon be twenty-seven, a well desired bachelor. A group of young girls were throwing glances in his direction from behind their decorated fans. Victor flashed them a smile and a girl feigned fainting. Yuuri couldn’t blame them.

A waiter passed by with a tray of champagne flutes. Victor exchanged the empty glass he was holding for a full one with a swift movement. Yuuri did the same when the tray was in reach, his cheeks warmed up from both the room heat and the alcohol as he uneasily walked around. He was at his ninth, maybe tenth glass, as having something with which keep his hands occupied seemed to ease the tension from his shoulders at least a little.

Russian still sounded foreign to his ears, his vocabulary embarrassingly small for a person who had lived in St. Petersburg for more than half a decade. He glanced around. Mr Nikiforov was smoking a cigar by the window, yellowish fume puffing around his head. He offered it to another man, who accepted without hesitation. From the curve of his lips, it was clear he appreciated it. When he made to give it back, Aleksey refuted with a gesture of his hand. His friend beamed for the unexpected gift.

On a midnight blue bench, a woman Yuuri had heard was Victor’s godmother gossiped with three other ladies. Their necks, fingers and wrists shined from a profusion of jewellery, which glistened cold like an eyesore. Yuuri’s attention was grasped by a diamond-encrusted seal-ring Victor’s godmother spotted on her left ring-finger. It sparkled with arrogance in the chandelier light. Yuuri diverted his sight, letting it land on five men, four in their sixties, one remarkably younger, busy around a gambling table. It appeared clear the younger was using all his charm and silver tongue to distract the others from the cards on the table and the money they were losing. 

Scattered among the other, Yuuri saw his colleagues, all dancers both from Mariinsky and other theatres. By mid-evening, most of them had gathered around Victor, as if he was a magnet, his fame as an aura. Yuuri had often listened to young ballerinas from the junior classes whooping in delight around a postcard portraying Victor, which a rich and ingenious parent had managed to obtain. Yuuri himself, with careful trade and money saving, had built a nice collection, all conserved in a drawer of his bedside table.

Victor was now chatting with a blonde man whose name Yuuri had grasped in the swirl of presentations, Christophe Giacometti. Yuuri’s lips met the glass brim once again, tasting the wine’s sweetness. He swallowed it in one shot, head tilted back, sweat-beaded throat exposed. He undid a couple buttons of his shirt and discarded his suit jacket, throwing it on the first chair available.

In the meantime, Chris had left Victor’s side to pursue an auburn-haired man on the other side of the salon. Yuuri took the chance. He adjusted his mask and hair with much more finesse than someone who had imbibed as many drinks as he had should be capable of and coughed to get Victor’s attention. Boldness kept his heart still and his breathing even. Whoever discovered alcohol deserved bliss.

“May I have this dance?” Yuuri offered Victor his hand, palm up in waiting. 

Victor took it.

***

Three months had passed and people still gossiped about the party, notably as a wild card when every other topic of conversation had failed. Most of the gossip never reached Yuuri's ears, since he had turned avoiding it into both an art and a mission. He remembered little from the ball, apart from having woken up the day after with the afternoon sun scorching his closed eyelids, with a terrible hangover and no idea whatsoever of what had happened the night before or how he had returned home. Eventually, he would learn the Nikiforov had been kind enough to pay a cab ride for any guests too drunk to walk home. Drowning in embarrassment, Yuuri had since then voted for complete isolation, dedicating soul and body to nothing but dance. 

Not everyone had shared such opinion. Winter had been a season of festivities for the Nikiforov family. Aleksey had thrown a small party for his son’s birthday, a feast for Christmas, and a soiree for the New Year. Yuuri hadn’t participated in any, despite having been invited to each event. He could not, again, find the will or courage to attend another overcrowded party where he felt he did not belong. Parties weren’t his thing and he couldn’t understand why people should want him around when he was only good as a tapestry or as a laughing stock. Thus he had lied to himself, affirming to have better ways to spend the two nights of festivities. 

Indeed, with Victor back in town - he had become Mariinsky _Premier Danseur noble_ [5] in no time - distractions had stopped being part of Yuuri’s vocabulary. Not when there were rumours about a show the Imperial family itself would attend. For all these reasons carelessness should not have been part of Yuuri’s vocabulary. Still, here he was, slipping like a lower-class burglar into Victor’s personal changing room instead of reaching his place in the theatre gallery like he should’ve done, given the luck he had a ticket to watch Victor’s performance this evening.

He knew sneaking in was a terrible idea, but after a long battle curiosity had had the upper hand. Yuuri could swear he heard his heart beating in his ears. He moved few light steps inside, the sound barely audible.

The air smelled like dust, wax and theatre makeup, a nice assortment of which was displayed before a brightly-lit mirror and vanity. Yuuri was standing in front of it before he could notice, leaning forward to examine his reflection. His fingers brushed the vanity with reverence, a thrill from the situation at hand travelling through his back, from nape down to his tailbone. He snapped open a shadow palette with a ‘click’. The powders were dense, the texture smooth, the colours bright, violets and purples being the most prominent. When Yuuri dared to press his fingertip on one of them, it came back all glittery.

Still, Victor’s collection of makeup didn’t interest and fascinate Yuuri as much as his stage costumes did. Hung in line on a wheeled rack pushed against the opposite wall, they stood quietly in all their opulence and glory. Some of them were part of the theatre’s supply - Yuuri had already seen a couple on stage during the previous seasons - but the majority belonged to Victor, a memento of his years in France. A last one, separated from all the others, was instead being commissioned there in St. Petersburg, for the show Victor was about to perform.

Yuuri caressed the heavy plum-coloured velvet, appreciating, almost cherishing, the softness of the fabric. It slid between fingers like water, offering no resistance. With his heart in his throat, Yuuri moved to trace the intricate embroidery hemming the points where the long sleeves attached to the bodice. They ended in silk cuffs forming a one with full-fingered gloves. More complex embroidery with a spiral pattern decorated the corset front, twirling around the waist to wrap the wearer as if in a possessive embrace. It sparkled from small, encrusted rhinestones.

It took all of Yuuri’s self-control to not try it on. Or not to grab the costume and run away with it as his fine prize. He almost couldn’t move, trapped soul and body under an unbreakable enchantment, a charm made of rich velvet and smooth silk and soft feathers and shining beads. Maybe by rubbing Victor’s costumes on his skin, only for few seconds, a bit of that talent would be passed onto him. Only a try, a matter of few seconds.

Yuuri curled his fingers into fists to keep them under control, nails almost biting into palm. Despite all his best intentions, he doubted he would be able to take off the costume if he had dared to put it on.

“Who are you?”

Yuuri froze in place. He didn’t dare to turn around until a light touch on his shoulder made him. His heart nearly stopped beating. Victor Nikiforov was so close Yuuri could smell his cologne and count his silver eyelashes. He stared those stunning blue eyes like a rabbit before a snake, blabbing on silent words. If Victor was already handsome on postcard and posters, nothing could compare with him in the flesh and bone.

Well, it had been good to know this world, Yuuri thought as the conviction he would soon be dead put roots in his mind. Even if Victor didn’t call someone to dispose of him, as was always done with trespassers, Yuuri might die by the simple yet overwhelming feeling of having his childhood idol merely a breath away. His belly twisted from long-forgotten memories and sensations as he let his mouth fall agape, unable to form a word. He wished for the floor to open and swallow him in its merciful well.

Only by some kind of miracle Yuuri managed to mutter a hoarse “Nobody,” thanking his years in Russia for having embedded the language in his tongue well enough to it be his first choice. Under his eyes Victor stilled, hand retrieved from where he had rested up to now. The changing room was well-lit. Despite his altered state, Yuuri couldn’t miss the wrinkle appearing across Victor’s forehead. Still, he didn’t concede himself time to wonder the reason behind it, as he grabbed the opportunity to move aside and forward with a swift step.

With Victor now at his back, Yuuri rushed out of the door and down the theatre aisles, heart threatening to dig a hole through his chest toward freedom. He pondered returning home, a mixture of embarrassment and relief already setting heavy on his nerves. He tossed the plan when almost outside in the chill early spring air, the possibility to admire Victor on stage stronger than any worries. With Lilia having been so kind as to provide him with an access to the show, it would be extremely impolite to not be present.

The theatre was packed. From where Yuuri stood in the highest gallery, he could see almost nothing of the ballerinas and danseurs on stage. Victor was little more than a dot, recognizable from nothing but the colour of his costume. A fine public had come to see him dance. Yuuri spotted for a brief moment the Tsarina and her two eldest daughters in her private box. 

Victor’s performance was nothing but breath-taking.

Yuuri left the theatre with a light step, his eyes barely aware of the road as flashes of the just ended show flashed before him. He couldn’t afford the luxury of a dinner in an expensive restaurant like the rich and noble spectators would do, but such a thing didn’t matter in the slightest when he had the memory of being so close to Victor, if for a small, pulse-pounding moment in a changing room full of wonderful costumes. He sighed. It was useless to hope it would ever happen again.

Therefore when Yuuri found himself on his butt, his grocery bag facedown on the concrete and its content scattered all over, with no one but Victor Nikiforov himself offering him a hand, he wondered if he had died without knowing it and this was the paradise meant for him. Or Destiny was playing tricks on him. In any case, there he was, sat on the ground with messy hair and worn out clothes, sweaty for the recent practice, and egg yolk staining his shoes. At least his ballet slippers were untarnished.

It would teach him right to pay attention to where he was going! But Yuuri couldn’t be blamed completely. With the strict regime at the ballet company, the time for doing errands was little, especially when not gifted with the presence of a housemaid. He couldn’t afford one. Nor did he want to indulge in exploitation of a young girl who would clean and cook for few kopeks. Thus the only choice he had was to sneak time to do errands and prepare his meals in between training. Eating outside home wasn’t a front-runner option, not with the hard times Yuuri already had in keeping his weight under control. So in a rush he had crashed right against Victor Nikiforov in the flesh and bones. 

“Hey, are you quite alright?” Victor asked with concern in his voice, accent soft. Yuuri blinked in the sun, tongue stuck to his palate. His brain had forgotten how to process words. “Ah- I-” he stuttered.

He didn’t take Victor’s hand. It was Victor to grab him by the wrist and pull him to his feet, careful not to hurt him. Yuuri tried again to speak, but such new attempt wasn't more successful than his previous. His brain was so short-circuited that nothing was left but a blissful land of awe to dominate Yuuri’s mind.

“I’m truly sorry!” Victor continued. Yuuri looked in his direction and found the man kneeled, worried about gathering Yuuri’s purchases back in the bag. Yuuri snapped from his trance. Collecting vegetables and other foodstuffs from the street wasn’t something Victor Nikiforov was supposed to do.

“Don't!” Yuuri cried, rushing to stop Victor. The man smiled as if it was nothing big and put the bag in his arms. Yuuri pressed it to his chest.

“I-I - thank you!” he managed to choke out. His cheeks were on fire. 

“What’s your name?” Victor asked to Yuuri’s surprise. He forced his tongue to answer: “Yuuri Katsuki,” voice hoarse.

Victor hummed the name under his breath, still smiling. “Such a nice name. Well, Yuuri, I hope to see you around,” he bid his farewell. Yuuri didn’t move, the turmoil in him too great. It stood in place for a solid five minutes before gathering enough spirit to continuing his errands. 

Victor walked away on feathery light feet. He would’ve bounced on the balls of his feet if jumping around the street hadn’t it been inappropriate and unrefined. Madame Baranovskaya and Master Feltsman would scold him profusely for showing such a childish image on the streets. They never lost the opportunity to remind him how his persona represented the theatre in every word he said and every gesture he did. In time a silvery cage had been constructed around him, like the one used by doctors to correct a bad posture, and, growing up, Victor had just learnt how to adapt to it. 

Then Yuuri had burst into his life, drunk, bold, unrefined; Yuuri, who had maintained a façade of property just enough to ask him for a dance the correct way before throwing all of himself in his arms; Yuuri, who had dared to step into his personal space and then looked surprised from his own actions; Yuuri who crashed against him like a fury.

The night Yuuri entered his changing room, Victor rolled in bed, unable to sleep, regretting not having taken the initiative to grab Yuuri’s wrist and ask for, if nothing more, at least a name. 

Inside him, a voice begged for another dance, another hug, the kind able to warm heart from the very soul. Victor had sworn to find the man again, but just how it happened after the party, he had disappeared once again. 

Victor watched the street in front of him, empty apart from the usual people, busy with their chats and errands. There was energy in his feet, the flaming sparkle preceding a _jeté_ or a nice series of _fouttés,_ raw power ready to explode in pure movement. He looked around, skin tingling in his legs, from the ankle up to his thigh, and he thought a little pirouette wouldn’t kill anyone. Mariinsky and the whole Russian ballet would survive, he would maybe receive another reprimand and proceed to ignore the warning. He raised on the demi-pointe and spun around, arms crossed over his chest. He did a little jump, landed as if he weighed nothing, and proceeded to spin again. 

“I think I’m in love,” he whispered some days later, lying in bed, hands crossed behind his nape and a dreamy expression on his face. Despite not having been in a serious relationship since ages - Chris was a special exception - Victor was pretty sure of having correctly classified the feeling. It was similar to the emotion by the same name he had often tried to express and communicate to the audience while on stage.

“Is that so?” Christophe replied, plopping down on the edge of the bed. After about a month as Victor’s guest, he had found a nice apartment in town. He would stay, according to his words, until the autumn, leaving before the winter could freeze the sea, making it impossible for the ships to leave. As he told Victor, who was responsible for convincing him to extend his stay, he wished to admire how ballet teachers work in Russia, along with grasping their secrets if lucky enough. Chris may be not as rich as Victor, but his financial condition allowed him to take a gap year. In the meanwhile, thanks to Victor’s intercession, he could benefit from the honour of attending some of the best ballet teachers in whole Europe.

“And who is the lucky or unlucky one?” Christophe asked when Victor had stood silently at his previous comment.

“Yuuri. Yuuri Katsuki,” Victor sighed, rolling on one side and propping on his elbow to face Chris. The name must not have been new for his dear friend, judging from the sparkle of recognition in his irises.

“Do you by any chance know him?” thus Victor inquired, leaning forward with elbows pressed on his thighs, chin posed on crossed fingers. 

“Yes, I know him. You should too,” Chris reprimanded him. “He is a danseur like you and me. A good one, I must admit, from the few times I saw him dancing.”

“Which company is he in?”

“Yours. Something you would know if you were more attentive to the people around you. But you’re a _primadonna_!” Chris exclaimed. Victor didn’t take any offence at the comment. When climbing his way to the top, training until his legs hurt so much he couldn’t stand on them and further, little time was left to listen to people's comments about his personality. As long as they cheered and clapped deliriously at his performances, everything else lost importance. Little time was also left for getting to know the other people in the ballet company and with all the years Victor had been away, he had only begun to at least grasp the names of the major dancers.

“Is he at Mariinsky?” Victor repeated with awe in his voice “he must be really good!”

A danseur. It explained the proficiency showed when they had danced together. It was unfortunate Yuuri didn’t seem to remember the event.

“He is, I’ve told you. Unfortunately, he is one of the shyest and secretive people I’ve ever met. He hardly takes part at any social event -”

“But? I can sense a but here.”

“He too has his vanities and weaknesses,” Chris conceded. A happy, interested grin spread across Victor’s face, mind spinning thinking about how to use the tidbit of information Chris was providing. He brought a hand to his heart. The beat was nothing but normal, but a glance at that beautiful face and it would go crazy again. In retrospective, he should have noticed earlier how Yuuri Katsuki had dedicated his life to dance. Should have noticed it in the shape of his body, recognizing the muscles strength underneath the clothes. He was carrying a pair of ballet slippers, for heaven’s sake!

“Wait,” Chris exclaimed out of the blue, “I’ve already seen this story.”

Victor snapped back from his daydreaming. He frowned but gave Chris a free ear. “What story, if I may?”

“This,” Chris made a vague gesture, “with you high in the clouds out of infatuation and love. A love for, correct me if I’m wrong, a mysterious raven-haired stranger with whom you disappeared down the street at a certain point of the ball. Pardon my words, dear friend, but it seems to me that your heart is confused and ready to pursue a shadow to heal a delusion,” Chris concluded, voice more concerned than it was chastising. Victor refuted his worries with a slow shake of the head. His eyes unfocused on a spot on the wall behind Chris’ head. His mind ran again over those sweet memories. 

“It isn’t like that. Sweet Yuuri is no one but the stranger. If our paths crossed again it must be a sign. I would be foolish to ignore it. This wonderful event happened because of Fate's benevolence.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“The way he speaks. I have never heard an accent like his.”

The look on Chris’ face said loud and clear he wasn’t buying any of it. “While I highly doubt the correctness of recognizing someone only by his voice with a trained ear like yours, if he truly is the man from the party why he doesn’t act like it?”

“I guess he has no interest in recalling a night of madness that, I imagine, in his mind belongs to a different realm than his everyday life. Don’t people drink to forget? Isn’t this one reason pleasures of life have been discovered, to escape without truly leaving this earth?” 

“If you put it like that,” Chris accepted. “Even if it isn’t, I know you too well to hope I can stop you. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t help you in pursuing what you said will bring joy to your heart.” 

Victor beamed. He felt so joyous inside he wouldn’t be surprised if light had started pouring out of his skin like sun rays through windows after a violent storm.s Just like spring is sweet as thick honey when it arrives after the long winter, the following days were in Victor’s eyes lovely. 

Victor felt alive like he hadn’t in years. After a long time a new, entrancing challenge was calling for him. It would require his wit, careful thought and planning, and Victor was more than ready to pursue it. Once the objective was set, few things could stop him from pursuing it. Life as a danseur left little space for amenities, love first and foremost. Victor was a professional, with the reputation of the theatre and a whole city resting on his shoulders. To subtract an hour from training and rehearsals wasn’t an option. Thus discovering new things about Yuuri, following him without being noticed, required the art and precision of a well-thought ballet choreography. 

Luckily, Yuuri Katsuki had a routine-based life, in line with what Chris had told Victor, Yuuri indulged in few pleasantries and the only daily deviation from the usual trip between his home and the theatre he walked every day was to a near shop for his t grocery shopping. He had never been seen eating outside, apart from a single exception.

Victor recalled Chris’s words. “There’s a tea-room not far from the theatre of which young danseurs are fond. Yuuri is one of them, though I believe the first time he went there was to accompany a friend. The place must have been of his liking since he visits it every Friday afternoon. He never orders anything apart from a cup of tea, but he drinks it slowly and, in the meanwhile, he watches the other customers.”

For two Fridays in a row, Victor had been too busy to even think about checking the tea-room in person. Not this time. He had organized his whole routine since the previous Monday to be sure he would be free on Friday.

From the first days after his return to Saint Petersburg, Victor had discovered that the city, albeit embedded with a beauty few other places could match, still lacked several amenities he had come to consider a normality during his stay in Paris. That included _cafès._ The city compensated with delightful _fructaria_ [6] and places to indulge in a nice slice of cake. 

Just like Victor, Yuuri Katsuki must be on a strict diet regime. With his cup of tea and no pastries to accompany it, despite the clear desire with which he was watching the sweets exposed, he stood out in the crowd, in a country like Russia where people never drank tea alone. 

Victor looked around at the ambience. The tea-room was nicer than expected and it was no surprise Yuuri loved it. It was small, hosting no more than five little tables, covered in chartreuse cotton tablecloths. Four chairs circled each. Water bubbled inside the samovars. Mousseline curtains decorated the arched windows. Behind the cherry wood counter, a chubby woman in a flowery apron was standing, a series of shelves line up, all filled with varieties of tea and other beverages in colourful tins, each with its own label. The late afternoon sun painted the floor in rich gold and oranges, flaming tongues reaching between the customer's’ feet.

It was already April, the promise of a warm summer in the air. People had divested their winter coats and furs for light clothes, in a blaze of colours. They chatted and gossiped, mouths leaning toward an ear to reveal a secret. Hope filled the air. 

“I’ve been told the _pastila_ [5] here are to die for,” Victor commented out loud. Yuuri lifted his gaze in disbelief, glancing around the crowded ambience as if he couldn’t believe Victor had addressed him and not someone else. When that appeared clear, he answered hesitantly. 

“No doubt they are. Unfortunately, I cannot verify it myself,” Yuuri replied, with the exotic accent of his. His Russian was iffy - sometimes he stretched the wrong letters - but overall understandable. Victor couldn’t help but comment on the fact. Yuuri’s cheeks tinted pink. 

“Maybe you would be more comfortable speaking in another language? French?”

Yuuri denied with a delightful smile and Victor’s heart fluttered.

“I’m afraid my knowledge of French doesn’t go much further from ballet terminology,” he clarified. That Yuuri was a danseur was information already in Victor’s possession, courtesy of Christophe. This still didn’t prevent Victor from saying: “What a pleasant coincidence. I am a danseur myself” - as if it the information wasn’t of public knowledge - “Which company are you in?”

Victor stood in wait for the conversation to be pushed forward. 

“Mariinsky,” Yuuri muttered, cheeks flushed like he was embarrassed to associate his name to the famous theatre. Victor had to suppress a grin. 

“Not a star, I’m afraid, though rumours brought to my ears said little Archduchess Tat’jana is fond of my dance,” Yuuri added, smiling shyly.

Victor beamed with enthusiasm.

“It must be a day of coincidences. I belong to Mariinsky Company too. I’m sure we’ll have plenty chance to cross paths, then.”

“Maybe,” Yuuri answered non-committally. Victor’s willingness to see him dance was met with the same amount of disinterest. To his surprise, Yuuri spoke again.

“I must yet again apologize for my intrusion in your changing room.”

Victor’s hands tingled from the desire to grab Yuuri’s, saying he had nothing to apologise for. “All is forgiven,” he assured instead. Yuuri’s features softened.

“And for having crashed against you.”

“As I said, all is forgiven.”

They chatted some more, Yuuri too polite to put a harsh stop to Victor’s questions. In the end, the Japanese man paid for his tea and took his leave. Victor followed soon after, his feet guiding him to the theatre as in possession of a willingness of their own. His mind was spinning high in the skies. Yuuri Katsuki may be a bit shy but overall had responded well to his company. A good omen for his courtship. Christophe had advised him not to rush things and for once Victor might listen to his friend.

Thus, to Yuuri’s benefit, Victor’s courtship started slowly as demanded by etiquette. After all, ballet wasn’t the only thing Victor had perfected during his stay in Paris. If he ever forgot his manners, the occasional and formal letters from Madame Lilia and Master Feltsman always contained a reminder that nothing he did was just about him. There was more at stake when the whole city had its eyes on him. 

Victor had been a public figure since he was eighteen. Teachers as unforgiving as Siberian winter taught him how to deal with the public and possible admirers. How to give the illusion of availability despite being secreted like a safe. Only that Victor didn’t wish to give Yuuri merely an illusion. Thus he started slow. Still, for Yuuri it was overwhelming.

Apart from visiting his same tea-room whenever possible - Victor had to admit the occasions weren’t even close to the number he would’ve liked - Victor started by sending Yuuri letters. He sat at the vanity desk in his bedroom, after having pushed it in front the window, with Makkachin snoring at his feet. Victor gave him a quick scratch between his fluffy ears and, amongst neatly ordered, colourful bottles of perfumes of all sizes and shapes, he wrote.

_“Dear Yuuri,_

_I hope this letter finds you in good health and in a prosperous condition and it will not be unwelcome on your side. I must admit, to my own dismay, that old-fashioned correspondence has never been among my talents. Nevertheless, to prove my good deeds in helping our ~~friendship~~ ~~relationship~~ whatever there is between us now to grow, I will commit myself to it. I wish you had a telephone so we could speak to each other as if we were face to face. _

_Sorry, that was inconsiderate of me. I beg your pardon._

_I would tell you today is a splendid day in St. Petersburg, but I imagine you can verify it yourself by only sticking your head out the window. Isn’t it lovely how spring seems to double in grace and beauty after a winter as long and harsh as we have recently known?_

_Forgive my boldness, but I must confess that your beauty and your warm eyes have captured my mind and soul out of my own control._

_Not even the loveliest spring, when in the morning the first oblique sunrays hit the dew on the leaves, could not compare with you. Nor could the flames that lapped the logs in my fireplace last winter._

_I see no use in keeping secret something I believe to be already so evident._

_Talking about only your beauty, however, would be an offence to you I am not willing to give._

_Your beauty shadows the pleasure I receive from your company on the days we can spend some minutes together. The hour you have recently conceded me on Friday is the sweetest of my week, sweeter than the sugary pastries that place sells. Chatting with you is a delight, but the silence you seem to appreciate so much is not burden to me._

_I consider it truly unfortunate I still haven't had the opportunity to see you perform. A shared acquaintance of ours told me your way of moving is absolutely outstanding. I wish I could witness it right now. I have faith it will happen soon. I am sure it will be nothing but heart-stopping._

_Sincerely Yours,_

_Victor.”_

When Victor placed down the fountain pen, careful that the ink didn’t stain the paper, he had eyes sparkling with adoration. Another person may well tell him he had been too straightforward for a first letter, but having already shared moments with Yuuri, albeit small, he didn’t see why he should refrain from telling what he believed to be the truth. No falsity was spoken in his written words, every letter nothing but what his soul believed. Victor’s lips quirked upward as he imagined Yuuri’s reaction in reading his letter. Chris had told him Yuuri was shy, reserved, and he had had a first-hand proof. Thus no doubt his beloved would blush in the same adorable way he did during their little chats in the tea-room. 

When the ink was dry, Victor folded the letter in three and put it in an envelope closed with a wax seal. He sighed. For sure, to live in the same city as Yuuri, with only a few kilometres to separate them, was bliss from on high. Victor had visited St. Isaac Cathedral on Sunday to pay his gratitude. In Russia religion entered under the skin, breathe mingling with incense, golden mosaics blackened by centuries of candles' smoke. His religion had been one of the few things he had missed most about Russia while away. This had become truer in France, which had long ceased to be a religious country. The extreme atheism born from the revolution wasn’t anymore, but the survived Catholicism couldn’t compare with the grandiosity of the Orthodox masses Victor saw as a kid. When he was in Paris, some days he paid a visit to the Alexander Cathedral, but it wasn’t the same. The church was too new. The surroundings weren’t right. It was the shadow of a dream.

Victor wrote Yuuri a letter a day. The first poured with the compliments Victor believed Yuuri deserved. However, after not having received a single answer, not even to receive a request to stop with all the flattery, Victor decided he should well change approach. He abandoned compliments, which he supposed put Yuuri at unease, to dwell in the description of his everyday life and sweet nothings. He spoke about small amenities and curious anecdotes from his days in Paris. At each letter, his once stiff pen gained sureness.

_Dear Yuuri,_

_today Ballet Master Feltsman must have woken up in a bad mood as he made me repeat fouttés for the whole day long, claiming they were not as fast as they should be._

_My head is still spinning [...]_

_Victor_

_***_

_Dear Yuuri,_

_today I saw a glimpse of you walking outside the theatre, with soft snowflakes in your raven hair. You were lovely [...]_

_Victor_

***

_Dear Yuuri,_

_my ankle is better now. Luckily a strict bandage and some ice had been enough to make the pain subdue. Besides after having trained on a sprained ankle, a little thump is nothing. [...]_

_Victor_

Yuuri began to answer after the tenth letter. 

First, he dipped the fountain pen for a message destined to his hometown. Several months had passed since his last missive to his family. Despite not having written in Japanese in ages, the words came as easily as breathing.

_“Dear sister,_

_I must apologise for my long silence, which was neither respectful nor considerate, and I imagine was a cause of concern for our mother and father. I can assure you I am in good health and in a condition I cannot complain about. I don’t know when this letter will arrive in your hands, but rest assured that at the time of the date on the top right of this paper, I am fine._

_Well, in all honesty, fine isn’t the best word I would use to describe my status. While it’s true that I’m in good health and with a roof over my head - speaking of which, the money mom attached to her latest letter was a gift from Heaven, but I pray you to coax her not to repeat it - my spirit is in turmoil._

_Do you remember the boy I saw dancing almost ten years ago? I suppose you do. I had quite an obsession. Plus I guess a sister would remember the main cause behind her brother moving miles away._

_Either way, I must say that Victor Nikiforov has recently developed an interest in me I don’t think I deserve. Yes, I can hear your and Minako sensei’s voices, telling me I am worth more than I believe but I have the moral obligation to be honest with myself. What can ever be born between Victor, who is cherished in all of St. Petersburg, and me, a dime-a-dozen danseur in a foreign land? Nonetheless, I have vowed not to shy away from his attention just yet. I would lie if I said his words and his compliments aren’t appreciated._

_I suppose, given the slowness of the postal service in these days, the update on this story will hardly keep up with its development, whether good or bad._

_Please say hello to mom and dad, to the Nishigori, and to Minako-sensei._

_Yuuri_

_P.S No, young Minami Kenjirou cannot sell my belongings to admirers, whoever they are._

_P.P.S Though I’m afraid it may be already too late._

Yuuri blew once on the still wet ink and covered the letter in a thin layer of sand to accelerate the drying process, setting it aside. He took another paper, dipped the nib in the inkstand, let ink in excess drop, and began yet another letter. Well, more of a short message.

_“ ~~Dear Mr Nikiforov~~_

~~__~~ _Dear Victor,_

_I apologise for not having answered you before. Though I don’t believe I’m worthy of them, your compliments flatter me in a way I must admit I like. I have to say it came unexpectedly, thus putting me in the condition of not finding the right words to answer properly. I’m glad to read that the pain in your ankle had subsided to almost nonexistence. St. Petersburg cannot lose a danseur like you._

_As for your proposal to accompany you next week Sunday morning, after mass, on a stroll with you and Makkachin, it will be a great pleasure._

_Sincerely_

_Yuuri K._

_P.S. On Wednesday evenings I am always trying either some choreography or old steps in the ballet room [7] on the third floor until late at night.”_

Yuuri leaned back in the chair, letting out a deep sigh, and rubbed his hands against his eyes. For a letter so short, writing it for sure had required a lot of mental work. There was a thin line between politeness and reluctance, enthusiasm and desperation and at each word Yuuri feared to fall down the abyss. Yuuri buried his head in arms and huffed for the terrible and yet delightful madness that is infatuation. A lifetime dream was right before his eyes, but he was afraid that once he leapt for it, he could find out its proximity was nothing but an illusion. Yet, turning his back on it would mean spitting on a gift from the gods. 

Two roads, regret or happiness at the end of each, in equal measure. At the mailbox, Yuuri stuck the letter bound home with easiness, but his fingers had a tremor when he let go of the one meant for Victor. At home, he prayed the gods for the only thing he could ask: time. 


	2. À contretemps

**À contretemps**

Yuuri ran his hand over the polished ballet barre, before curling his fingers around it in a solid albeit not clingy grip. He put his feet and free arm in first position by sheer body memory and set his stare on the front wall. His training routine always began from the simplest basics, the same movements repeated thousands of times, aiming for perfection. 

First position. Second. Third. Fourth. Fifth. Repeat.

Yuuri was aware that the other dancers considered the elementary barre exercises too basic and a waste of time to run through every day. Most considered them only for the children who were just beginning their training, and only reviewed them when forced to under the watchful eye of Master Feltsman.

They preferred instead to work on the more advanced steps that they could show off in an audition. They didn’t see why they should work on simple jeté preparations when they could dedicate themselves to adding more distance and height to their grand jeté en tournant directly. Instead, Yuuri did all this and more, every day, using the same free time he could use to gossip or go to parties.

Running through the basics also helped in calming Yuuri when his nerves were on edge. He focused on the familiar way his feet, arms, and hands were supposed to coordinate and he regained harmony.

Looking back at when even manipulating his body into the five positions gave him difficulty helped him see how much he had improved and how far he had come. He suppressed a little laugh at the thought, as he brought his feet back to first position to run through the first series of pliés. For sure he had gone far, both literally and metaphorically, moving thousands of kilometres away from home to pursue his dream. 

Yuuri kept his hand relaxed against the ballet barre, careful to keep the line from his fingers up to the shoulders straight but not rigid. He bent his legs at the knees, going down as far as his body allowed him, then a bit further. After all these years he still heard his first teacher’s voice ringing in his ear, saying to not bend his back and not raise his shoulders. 

Good basis makes a good dancer, his first teacher used to say. 

_Demi-plié_. _Grand plié_. _Rélevé_. A series of four, two times.

Yuuri shifted his feet into second position to repeat the exercise, following the same sequence: plié, grand plié, rélevé. He would run the same pattern through all the five positions, doing four of each step, slowly and accurately.

Afterward, he steeled himself to go through a familiar routine that would last at least two hours. It was a test of memory, body-coordination, grace, and endurance.

Yuuri began from the _tendus_ , an ear out for the unforgiving ticking of the metronome. Right leg outstretched before him, foot tense, and bringing the leg to the side with a rotation. The steps were so embedded in Yuuri’s memory that in his mind their names were chanted like a silly rhyme. _Tendus. Attitudes. Petit Battement. Battement fondu. Grand battement. Développé_

As Yuuri lifted his leg in the air, muscles contracted to maintain the position, he wondered if Victor would ever come to see him dancing like he said he would like to do. He shook his head for how ridiculous the thought was. With every chance, Victor was only being polite and had better things to do than watching him doing simple steps. His calves muscles burnt but Yuuri still didn’t lower his leg. Sweat beaded his brow. 

“You’re zealous!” a new, unexpected, albeit not unfamiliar voice came from the door. 

Yuuri jumped in place.

“Victor! What are you doing here?” he blabbered, hastily putting on the glasses he had hooked in the collar of his shirt. Victor was dressed in everyday clothes, wool trousers and a soft beige kosovorotka [1]. He looked handsome in traditional Russian garments, more relaxed than when he was wearing a suit.

“Well, I thought your postscript was an invitation. Am I mistaken?”

He wasn’t, but Yuuri couldn’t imagine the subtle invitation to be caught and accepted. He left the ballet barre to grab a canteen of water from his bag. 

“Of course not. I didn’t … I wasn’t ...” he muttered in between sips. He prayed Victor wasn’t too offended by his behaviour. He swallowed, mouth made dry by nervousness. He knew he was nothing special, while Victor was the best danseur in St. Petersburg, maybe in the whole of Russia, and he had done the courtesy of coming to watch Yuuri dance only to be welcomed like this. Victor’s face wasn’t showing displeasure, but life on stage must have taught him how to conceal his true emotions.

“I didn’t think you would come,” Yuuri managed to put together an answer. “I’m nothing special, after all,” he affirmed, avoiding Victor’s gaze on purpose. He ran fingers through his sweaty hair, combing tufts back in a nervous gesture, feeling drops of sweat rolling down his nose and between his shoulder blades. Yuuri looked down, noticing a wet patch along the shirt collar, which made him feel gross and unattractive. 

“You offend me, Yuuri! Didn’t I tell you in my last letter I would be delighted to watch your routine?” Victor protested, hand on heart and a wounded expression. The theatricality almost made Yuuri laugh, lightening his heart from the previous worries about his appearance. Eventually, he admitted he hadn’t given Victor’s words the right attention, which for sure had been inconsiderate on his part.

“Don't worry. All is forgiven,” Victor dismissed Yuuri’s concern with yet another blinding smile. “So?” He continued, sitting cross-legged on the parquet floor “were you done before I interrupted you?”

Yuuri shook his head, chest rising for a single, deep sigh. Even with his back to Victor, he could still feel Victor’s blue eyes piercing stare between his shoulder blades. In the end, he resigned, turning around. 

“No! I mean, yes. I mean, I don’t think I can dance with you watching me,” he confessed in a blabber of words, head ducked and fingertips pressing together.

He was working on a little choreography of his own creation, but he doubted he would be able to dance knowing Victor Nikiforov was watching him. Victor brought his index finger to his lips, eyes lost in thought. Yuuri swallowed, forcing a lump down his throat. Victor was so beautiful. He was a creature modelled from ice, hair and skin kissed by the moon and yet warm as the sun. The Silver Etoile. St. Petersburg’s darling. Yuuri had always considered him to be untouchable, a distant, elusive model; but now Victor was undermining Yuuri’s belief, with his sweetness and his compliments and his attention. It was almost painful, the way Yuuri’s dreams and hopes were nourished by the smallest gestures.

“How much time do you need to forget anything but your dancing?” Victor recalled him from his own, swirling thoughts.

”What?”

“I was here since the _tendus_ , but you didn’t notice. I suppose you wouldn’t have if I hadn’t spoken. So, how much time?” 

Silence fell heavy between them, Yuuri at loss of words as Victor’s answer had come as unexpected as his visit was. He must admit Victor was right about the level of focus he could reach when immersed in the dance, enough that the whole outside world could disappear for hours. If Victor hadn’t called him, Yuuri was sure the man could come, observe him, and leave before he could have the slightest idea of his presence.

Yuuri sighed, “Some minutes, I guess.”

To Yuuri’s surprise, Victor closed his eyes and brought his palms to cover them. When Yuuri asked him what he was doing and above all, why, he explained, “Me watching you makes you nervous, right? So I will count to four hundred before looking. Is that good?” 

Victor spoke as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Sat on the floor, with hands over his eyes, he was like a kid counting for hide and seek. He seemed so childish, relaxed and happy, completely at ease. The Academy was his home, the place where he belonged, and he showed it. 

“I guess so,” Yuuri conceded, taking off his glasses for good measure. He inhaled a deep breath, focusing on how the air filled his lungs, and began with _port de bras_. Just like Victor had predicted, Yuuri lost himself in the routine after a few steps, his brain too focused on the movements to care about anything else; even if that _else_ was Victor Nikiforov, Mariinsky theatre’s best danseur and the pride of the Russian Empire in the flesh and bone. 

There was a story in Yuuri routine. There was a story in every ballet able to capture the hearts of the multitudes willing to pay the theatres expensive tickets to pack its rooms. It was little and simple, for the most part based on his personal life, though immersed in the realm of fantasies and dream. 

Once upon a time, in a land across the globe, there was a young boy. One day, on his way home from errands in the nearby village, he stopped by a frozen river in cold winter where a beautiful creature was dancing to his heart's content. The creature didn’t notice the boy and disappeared when he finished the dance. The same scene repeated over the days until one the boy decided to follow the creature to his grotto. 

“It’s nice. How does it continue?” Victor asked when Yuuri stilled his movements and relaxed his posture. Yuuri shrugged.

“It doesn’t. Not yet.”

He had yet to think about the ending. His heart longed for a happy one. His mind said it wasn’t possible. Besides, ballet was meant for tragedies, not comedies. There were exceptions, of course, for the days of festivities, but Yuuri didn’t believe himself to be great enough to be an exception. In the end, the story still hadn’t an ending.

It had a beginning, however.

It began in Tokyo when, one day, a group of dancers from a faraway land had come. In the process of modernization that had begun under Emperor Meiji, people from the West weren’t a complete surprise anymore, but their presence still made locals’ heads turn. The real reason for the dancers’ presence in Tokyo was lost in Yuuri’s memory. They may have been a sort of gift to show the court an example of Western art excellency, something attached to some kind of diplomatic mission. Or they were only people passionate about their dance, to the point of wanting to bring it outside their country’s border. 

Yuuri was a eleven-year-old kid at the time, accompanying his father on a business trip to the capital.

There, on the side of a busy road full of vendors, on a wooden stage built in the moment, Yuuri saw Victor dancing for the first time. 

He froze his steps, ears captured by a sweet melody he had never heard before, and turned toward the source of the sound on a whim. He didn’t care his father had long walked away, unaware his son wasn’t following him anymore. 

The music was coming from a woman playing an unknown instrument, a kind of biwa but held under the chin and whose strings were made to vibrate with a bow. Nonetheless, if the musician was interesting, the boy dancing was so magnetic Yuuri couldn’t divert his gaze. The danseur was a creature born from ice and snow, eyes like lakes in winter and silver hair held in a ponytail flowing like a storming wind. His movements were different from any dance Yuuri had seen before, excessive, powerful, and yet graceful. At times it gave the illusion of a fight with a mysterious opponent. It shifted to a plea for a cruel lover, before passing a joyful dance, altogether on a little stage.

The boy was a yosei [2] born from ice, but what Yuuri was feeling wasn’t cold in the slightest. The points of his fingers tickled for the desire to stretch out a hand and touch the boy’s fair skin to verify it was real. Yuuri’s mouth got dry, his tongue heavy as if he hadn’t drunk in days. A warmth whose cause he couldn’t identify yet, let alone explain, pooled in his belly. 

He moved toward the stage as if in trance, nudging his way through the other members of the audience. He knew the dance wasn’t meant to lure him, just like it wasn’t meant to lure anyone. On the contrary, from what Yuuri could understand about the story narrated on stage, the danseur was the one being lured. Yet Yuuri had the impression of having his body tied in invisible laces, which the boy on stage created with his movements.

The music grew in intensity, a crescendo to underline the incoming end of the narrated story. The danseur leapt in the air like he was weightless, legs in a perfect split, landing on demi-pointe. He brought his hands to his chest, heart-level, face twisted in a desperation so real a pang of pain blossomed in Yuuri’s stomach. The danseur let himself fall on the floor. 

There was a pause, during which nobody dared to breathe, concerned for the boy’s well being before the dancer stood up and walked to the stage’s limit. He was smiling, every trace of sufferance gone. The mask had been put away until a new performance. The boy bowed and thanked the people who had stopped to watch in stiff Japanese. In a matter of minutes, the stage was gone, the musician was gone, and the boy was gone.

Yuuri noticed only then his father was nowhere to be seen. He was a judicious boy and simply walked to the side of the road to wait. His father found him an hour later, next to a vendor selling salted fish. He scolded Yuuri profusely for having scared him so much by disappearing in the crowd and then hugged him in relief. 

 

The evening after the spectacle Yuuri tried some of the dancing steps in the loneliness of the room where they were staying. From the floor below came the cries and laughter of people already drunk on beer and sake. Yuuri knew his father was among them. He brought his arms up above his head like the strange boy had done and pretended to twirl around. On that temporary stage, Yuuri had seen pure magic. Maybe, he thought, he could learn some of it. He was outside his room before he could be aware of it, his body moving on his own. 

Tokyo was a gigantic town, not the place where an eleven-year-old boy should wander alone, but Yuuri was determined to find out the mysterious dancer’s identity. He wanted to know if he could dance like him. How he could dance like him.

Finding the ryokan where the dance company was hosted was easier than expected. Yuuri took a mental note to go to the temple once home to thank the gods for the unexpected fortune. The inn was bigger than the one where Yuuri and his father were staying, but the laughter filtering through the windows’ rice paper was the same. Lanterns lining its wooden walls, swung in the light breeze, diffusing a warm light. From the far fields, crickets chirped. 

The members of the dance company were all sat around a low, traditional table. Yuuri recognized the musician, with her instrument lay across her lap, and the danseur, with his silver hair in a bun held by a couple of decorated pencils. The hairdo looked good on him. They were with other two girls the boy age. Sat at another table was an older man who Yuuri supposed must be their teacher. He walked right before him, hands closed in fists, and blurted out: “Please teach me how to dance!” 

The room stilled. The dance teacher looked around and back to Yuuri, brow furrowed in confusion. Yuuri moved into the shadows. Feeling the stares on him made him uncomfortable. The dance teacher gestured for another to move closer. He pointed at Yuuri, still gesturing. The interpreter’s face lit up and murmured some words in a foreign language. When he spoke to Yuuri, however, he did it in Japanese. 

“He wants to know why.”

Yuuri didn’t know. He barely knew why he was in that ryokan, all-alone, asking a stranger to teach him his secrets. He only knew that if he closed his eyes he could see the silver-haired boy dancing and his limbs tingled. It was a charm and he had fallen prey to it. 

“I don’t know,” he thus admitted, sincere. “But I know I want to dance. I meant it. I can feel it!” he prayed, gesturing in the air as to indicate something in his belly and in his heart. The interpreter translated. The man furrowed, even more, the wrinkle in his brow deepening. He muttered some words, which the interpreter promptly repeated so that Yuuri could understand them.

“You’re too old.”

“I’ll work twice as hard. I promise. I don’t care how difficult it will be. Please, I can’t go home knowing something like this is possible, that people can move like this, and not knowing how. I beg you.” 

Yuuri dropped to his knees, head ducked, palms together. It was the first time he desired something with such ardour. There was a pause of reflection. When the foreigner spoke again, his face had softened. 

If Yuuri was ready to work until he couldn’t feel his feet anymore, if he was ready to leave his home and his family for years, if he was ready to sacrifice all he had for it, the ballet teacher could try to teach him something. He made Yuuri try some movements to test his coordination and flexibility. At the end of the test Yuuri couldn’t yet determine if the man was pleased or not. He told Yuuri he had to talk with his parents, so there was hope. He then introduced himself as “Oleg Vladimirovič Petrov.” 

The day after Yuuri had begged his father to speak with Oleg Vladimirovič, taking another deserved scold, but not stopping until Toshya had agreed. Oleg Vladimirovič repeated the same things he had explained to Yuuri. 

“We have to talk with your mother and sister,” Toshya conceded. Now they were returning home, the business they had in Tokyo all finished. 

Around fourteen days later Yuuri was back in his hometown, a small village on the shore in Southern Japan. The return journey was quiet. They did half the route by train and for Yuuri was a completely new experience. The rest was on horseback, the summer weather mild with the exception of sporadic and briefs showers, which would’ve bothered Yuuri if he hadn’t been busy in daydreaming about the show he had seen. 

“You’re lucky!” his father’s exclamation interrupted Yuuri’s rush of memory. Yuuri’s question was painted on his face. Toshya laughed. 

Oleg Vladimirovič was from a city whose name Yuuri couldn’t grasp on the other side of the globe and there his pupils would soon return. Their ballet master, however, would not follow them back home. A woman, not shining in beauty, but sweet and a good housekeeper had conquered Oleg Vladimirovič’s heart, bringing him to decide to extend his stay in the Japanese capital. Toshya also added that some noblewomen, fascinated by the novelty of foreign dancing had asked Oleg Vladimirovič the same Yuuri did for their daughters. 

If ever the decision to dedicate himself to dance - ballet they called it - was approved by his family, Yuuri could begin his approach to that world in Tokyo; that didn’t change the fact he would one day have to move to another country to ever hope to make dance into a viable career. Oleg Vladimirovič was crystal clear about that. 

Back in Hasetsu, Yuuri knew already with whom he had to talk if he wanted a chance for his dream to not stay prisoner inside the border of his little town and become a reality.

Minako Okukawa was a priestess of the temple. She had taught Yuuri some traditional dance moves and prepared him a calming tea or offered a helping hand when breathing became too difficult. She listened to him and her door was always open. Yuuri was sure Minako-sensei would understand. She did, as always. 

“I’ll talk with your parents, Yuu-chan.”

Minako had been stern, haughty and beautiful like Almighty Amaterasu, to the point Yuuri had almost believed the Emperor in person would bow before her, as ridiculous as the thought may be.

Minako poured a cup of tea for each family member, leaving herself for last.

“Your son,” she began, shifting eyes from Hiroko to Toshya and backward, “is the sweetest boy I’ve ever met. He’s kind, polite, respectful. You have educated him well. A few days ago he came to speak to me, expressing his desire to dedicate his life to dance and I am all willing to support him.”

She took a sip, never breaking eye-contact. Yuuri brushed his sweaty palms against the kimono cloth, always looking at Minako because he was too afraid to watch his parents reaction. He wasn’t ready to see the disappointment on their faces. 

“I won’t allow this child to be stained by war. There have been already too many wars and they brought nothing but pain.”

Minako looked at Hiroko. Yuuri’s mother was her friend and kohai. “Hiroko, I know you have a good heart and you are my friend, but if you decide to make Yuuri a soldier, then you’re not the person I took as kohai years ago. And you” she continued, now facing Toshya “you won’t be anymore the young man to whom I gave my blessing.”

Yuuri didn’t remember exactly what happened immediately afterwards, as he was too busy fighting the wave of panic surging from his stomach. At a certain point, however, Mari nudged him in the ribs, and he raised his head with infinite slowness. He searched his mother’s face as she had always protected him, sure to find regret. But he didn’t. His mother wasn’t disappointed or disgusted. She was serene, like when he scratched his knees when little and she lulled the pain away. Yuri’s father instead looked sad. No, Yuuri corrected himself, melancholic. Yuuri supposed he wasn’t enthusiastic about his decision. He knew his father had other plans for his future: he was the only male heir and one day the family business should’ve been his. It was the natural way of things.

”We’ll miss you,” was his father’s answer after a long silence. No use in delaying the decision furthermore. Toshya had had his time to think during the long way back from the capital and if Hiroko agreed, the whole family did. She was the real pillar of the house.

That admission about how he would miss his son was Toshya’s blessing. A part of Yuuri almost jumped over the table to hug his parents. However he had been educated in a different manner, so he simply bent in gratitude and acceptance.

Later Yuuri hugged Minako as she was walking back to the temple, him following like he did since he was only a toddler. He was almost twelve, no taller than her legs, but she hugged him back and ruffled his hair. She also crouched before him.

“Yuuri, are you sure about this?”

She reminded him how different living in Tokyo would be. He would be alone.

“I can accompany you for a while, but here I have duties I have to attend. I can sense it will be a long, unforgiving training. Are you sure?”

Yuuri looked at her, then over her shoulder, mind spinning with the meaning of leaving Hasetsu. He barely knew there was a world beside Hasetsu. Minako was right, he would have to leave all the people he knew and loved and if the bare thought made him nauseous, living it might be unbearable. His throat became tight as if there was an Oni choking him. His vision went blurry behind the glasses’ lenses. A buzz filled his ears. 

Yuuri was on the verge of a panic attack when the image of a silver ponytail twirling in the air flashed his mind. Blue eyes, so big and round, and feet almost floating above the ground. Such a creature didn’t belong to this world. His breathing slowly subsided to a normal pattern. 

Something warm bloomed in Yuuri’s belly, like a pull toward an unknown call, an enchantress’ song. A sparkle of determination ignited his eyes. “I know. I’ll do it.”

Only then he noticed that Minako was squeezing his hands.

 

Yuuri had been almost flabbergasted by Tokyo because it was nothing like the village he was used to, where the population was small and every person knew and helped each other. Houses vomited people in an out. They reversed in the streets, appearing from the deepest, unknown corners. It was a crawling mass, always coming and going. Carriages, rickshaws, and omnibus speeded by with no care for the foot traffic, raising puffs of yellow dust that made people cough. 

The air resonated with the sound of people laughing and chatting in a foreign accent. It smelled of fish from the oily vendors scattered all over, of dirty water, of women’s perfume, and wet wood. A similar mixture caused Yuuri more than one migraine on the first days. He never complained, though. 

However, more than the smells, what hit him hard were the faces, especially the Westerners, with their fair skin, and yellow hair, and big, funny noses. Yuuri was too educated to indulge in staring, but sometimes even him couldn’t resist the curiosity, and glanced sideways at one of them, analysing their foreign features. Some Westerners could have been beautiful, their features softened by a certain harmony; most of them, still, were simply ugly, almost grotesque, like a demon mask put outside the door to scare the evil spirits. For example, there was a French engineer, with whom Oleg Vladimirovič went out drinking on Sunday evening, who Yuuri couldn’t help but find extremely distasteful. 

Finally, the thing that struck Yuuri as strong as Victor had done, making his mouth fall agape and his eyes sparkle: the Imperial Palace. Hasetsu had a small, empty castle, which, according to old legends, had been used as headquarters for a ninja organization. Compared with the Imperial Palace it was little more than a dollhouse.

Minako stayed with Yuuri for a little more than a month, but her eventual departure was still too soon. The reality of his new condition hit Yuuri hard, returning home in the evening and not finding her busy in preparing a calming brew. Yuuri’s current host, a distant relative, may be a kind and good man, but he was a stranger, too immersed in his business to care about him. He wasn’t a bad person, but he didn’t know how to deal with a young boy.

Yuuri wasn’t his guest for long. One day Oleg Vladimirovič, who had already presented Yuuri as his aid to the people asking him, proposed Yuuri to go live with him and his wife. It wasn’t unusual for a student to live under the same roof of his master, and this way Oleg Vladimirovič could improve Yuuri’s education. A good dancer had to study aplenty. In exchange, Yuuri would help Makoto with managing the household, something that came to him easily because of his family’s background. Yuuri taught Makoto some dishes from Kyushu, which she prepared when gloom wrapped around him. Sometimes, Oleg Vladimirovič cooked too, strange soups that tasted acid on the tongue or, if he was in a good mood, little, soft bread filled with vegetables or fish.

Oleg Vladimirovič, faithful to his warnings, was an inflexible teacher, expecting nothing but perfection. He always carried a cane with him, which he didn’t use when walking, but to beat the rhythm on the floor and correct Yuuri’s posture. Since during daytime Oleg Vladimirovič did teach the daughters of some noble families in the court, Yuuri’s learning happened at night. With years of training to catch up with, free days were all but to be forgotten. Not even when Oleg Vladimirovič was involved elsewhere did Yuuri have the occasion to relax. Most of the time he accompanied the ballet master to be a helpful hand during the lessons, with always the recommendation to pay attention, because observation was the beginning of learning. 

When he was left home, either he helped Makoto with the housework, or he studied. There wasn’t only dancing in the life of a good danseur, as Yuuri had soon discovered. Art was a well-round sphere. Each evening Oleg Vladimirovič questioned Yuuri about what he had read: history of music; history of dance; theatre; European mythology; Russian and French language, customs and practices. If Yuuri had doubts about how studying such things could help his dance, he knew better than to ask. He learnt how ballet was born in a country named France at the court of a King who, like the Emperor, was said to be the sun. He studied about Russia’s first ballet schools and its most important theatres. 

One day Yuuri asked about the silver-haired boy who had seen dancing all those months ago. Who was he? What was his name? Oleg Vladimirovič eyes lit up. 

“That was Victor, our most promising danseur. Our pride and joy.”

For four years things went smoothly, fear and nostalgia long absorbed by a well-woven routine which didn’t give much time to think. Before the end of the fourth year, however, tragedy struck. From one day to another Makoto fell ill, coughing blood in sweat-drenched sheets from tuberculosis, which was already at its final stage. This was the doctor’s verdict.

The woman must have kept her illness hidden, dismissing the occasional coughs for a consequence of the cold and her pallor for tiredness. Three months later she was underground, the brief trip to the shore that Oleg Vladimirovič had paid in the hope of saving her, useless. The man cried all day.

Oleg Vladimirovič spent a week in strict mourning, giving Yuuri the duty to inform everyone he was unwell and thus not in the condition to teach.

His professionalism received a disinterested response. The girls who once were his apprentices had long ceased to be children, already facing on the verge of adulthood. Ballet had been a nice diversion, a divertissement to brag about with friends. Now new challenges and duties required the girls’ attention and ballet went forgotten in the realm of childish fantasy.

Likewise, the approach of the locals with Oleg Vladimirovič changed, the new treatment harsher since Makoto’s death. Oleg Vladimirovič had tried his best to conduct a quiet life, never tapping where a foreigner wasn’t supposed to. Although he couldn’t fit in, he still tried to learn the language. Just like Yuuri had stayed awake for nights to study Russian, Oleg Vladimirovič had done the same with Japanese, bent over a roll of ideograms lit by an oil-lamp, dutiful Makoto at his side. At the time, however, the Russian and the Japanese Empires were still on relatively good terms. Now a new war was opposing Japan and its Chinese neighbour and, despite Russia not being directly involved in the conflict, its interests clashed with Japan’s, thus making a potential enemy.

Citizens looked at Oleg Vladimirovič with suspicion in their eyes. In the end, the man had no choice but leave Tokyo and return home. The war wasn’t concluded yet.

“Nothing here’s left to hold me,” he told Yuuri at dinner, a half-eaten bowl of rice set aside. Yuuri could go with him if he wished. He might become a good dancer if he continued to train. Oleg Vladimirovič could teach him a little more, preparing him for entering one of the companies they had in Russia. They were strict, the selection thorough and with no mistakes allowed. If Yuuri was ready to leave his country, his family, his culture, his language, everything he had known until now, then he may have a chance. Hard-work and a great sense of music would help him.

“Think about it.”

“I will,” Yuuri said, but he had already taken his decision. He wrote a letter home saying his goodbye, heart bleeding for not being able to do it in person. But Oleg Vladimirovič didn’t feel sure in Japan anymore and wanted to leave as soon as possible. 

“It’ll be hard,” he told Yuuri. Yuuri knew he had had for years now. If he had had any doubt or naivety, the disgusted look the employee at the Russian embassy gave him was enough for Yuuri to understand he was leaving his home country for a land that would never accept him. The Russian Empire would open his gate, but only with the right key, a passport and a visa signed by ambassador Rozen Romanovich, with whom Oleg Vladimirovič had spent long hours chatting, extolling Yuuri’s good faith, clean criminal records, willingness to work and any other elements to bring the ambassador to concede his approval. 

Yuuri and Oleg Vladimirovič left Tokyo at the beginning of summer to avoid being stuck by ice and snowstorms during the journey. 

The war had just ended 

By the time Yuuri’s family had received his letter and wrote an answer, he would already be on a boat down a river crossing the cruel Siberian territories, toward a city named like a king and that Oleg Vladimirovič loved deeply. Yuuri knew his future laid there in wait, thousand kilometres from home. There in St. Petersburg Victor Nikiforov was dancing and one day Yuuri would dance on the same stage.

***

Yuuri pinched the bridge of his nose. If anything, the day he had left Japan he would’ve never imagined he would ever actually meet Victor in person and get to spend time with him, with the chance of becoming more than a face in the corps. Still, there he was, listening with half an ear to a mass about which he cared little. Victor had invited him for a stroll before lunch and Yuuri felt both worried and impatient at the prospect. 

Russia was a deeply religious country and Sunday was dedicated to going to church. The intricate complex of ritual, images, and general elements composing Orthodox Christianity was part of the Empire identity, a source of hope for the serfs and a reminder of their power for the Royals. It was one of the first things Yuuri had understood when coming to St. Petersburg, a knowledge that brought him to attend mass like any other respectful citizen. It wasn’t his religion, nor he believed a whiff of what the long-bearded priest said in his speeches. However, it was a way to integrate, make himself a little less visible, and God knew Yuuri needed to not stand out. That day the priesthad been particularly interested in reminding the faithfulthe importance to reprimand as they wait for the incoming Easter.

Being among the last ones to exit the cathedral, Yuuri found Victor already waiting for him. He was with a red-haired girl, who was freeing her red hair from the headscarf women were required to wear during mass. 

“Hi, Yuuri!” Victor greeted him with a wave of his arms. Yuuri reciprocated. 

“She’s Ljudmila Babicheva, my father’s goddaughter. Mila, this is Yuuri Katsuki, a danseur from my same ballet company,” Victor made the proper introductions. Yuuri studied Mila, feeling studied at the same time. He remembered vaguely to have seen the girl during Victor’s party in December, a nice lady in a pink dress who had spent half the evening arm-wrestling with guys older than her, winning.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, miss Babicheva,” Yuuri made a small bow in greeting. It was one of the habits he still had to abandon. 

“The pleasure is mine. Call me Mila.”

Mila exchanged another couple of words with Victor about a family dinner, before turning to Yuuri and saying her goodbye. 

“Is she a ballerina? I have never seen her around the theatre,” Yuuri asked Victor when they were only the two of them, walking away from the church. “And where is Makkachin?” he added, glancing around. 

“At home. It would be cruel to leave him waiting here for almost two hours, don’t you think?”

“Yes. It would be.”

“And Mila did study ballet but stopped as soon as she got old enough to command in the house,” Victor laughed. “She was ten at the time. Whoever will marry her has to be strong.”

“I suppose,” Yuuri replied, not-committedly, images of miss Babicheva humiliating in muscle strength people twice her size without breaking a sweat flashing before his eyes. “Not a person to have as an enemy.”

“Definitely not.”

Makkachin was enthusiastic, a ball of pure happiness in dog form, who decided he liked Yuuri as much as his master at first sight. They found him bouncing at the front door, a leash already attached to his collar. 

“Alina says that by now he knows exactly how long I will stay away, so he starts to bark exactly when the church’s bell rings, praying to be let outside,” Victor told Yuuri, petting the dog. “But you don’t need a leash, right? No, you don’t. You’re a good boy. Yes, you are!” Victor cooed, hugging tightly Makkachin’s neck with an arm, chin resting on the dog’s head. Yuuri couldn’t help but smile at the scene. He felt - he knew - it was genuine, like when Victor had sat on the parquet floor in the ballet room, hands over his eyes as a kid playing hide and seek. 

The streets of St. Petersburg at noon were almost deserted. Most people were already around a table to consume their Sunday lunch. Yuuri didn’t mind, though, the quietness of the city at that hour. The spring sky was a bright cerulean blue, the sun shining at his centre like a pendant in a necklace. The temperature was mild. Yuuri removed his heavy sweater and stretched his arms high above his head. 

“You look good in a kosovorotka,” Victor commented. Yuuri blushed, thanked, and diverted his gaze, playing with the hem of the garment. Kosovorotki were comfortable and usually cheaper than buttoned shirts. 

“Not as much as you,” Yuuri dared to say, fast and under his breath. “But you look good also in a suit,” he hastened to add, afraid Victor would misinterpret his words. Victor giggled behind a closed fist. “You flatter me, Yuuri!” he teased. He proceeded to undress his own jacket, throwing it over an arm. 

They walked on the Neva quays, lined with palaces with colourful façades. The golden chapel of St. Isaac Cathedral stood against the pristine sky. Boats secured to the banks rolled in the water. In the distance, the ships sirens blasts could be heard, a low bellowing sound, along with the seagulls cries. A couple came down to fly low above Victor and Yuuri’s head and Makkachin jolted to chase the birds. Victor burst into a sincere laugh, throwing his head back to watch the seagulls, a hand over his forehead to protect his eyes from the sun.

“You know, seagulls cries were one of the things I missed the most when I was in Paris.”

“Really?” Yuuri exclaimed. Despite Victor being talkative the times they met, the stories about his days in France were fewer than one would expect considering the man’s willingness to talk about himself. Under certain aspects, Victor was surprisingly reserved. There was a hint of nostalgia in his light voice and Yuuri had the impression, or maybe the illusion, he had more in common with Victor than what he had previously imagined. Indeed they both had experienced what it meant to be a stranger in a foreign land, despite in different circumstances. 

“Yes, I think I understand,” he commented with sympathy, glancing too at the white spots flying in circles way above their heads

Victor hummed something about Yuuri being neither from St. Petersburg nor from Russia. After all **,** it was common knowledge.

“I suppose this city never makes you forget you aren’t born here.”

“Yes,” Yuuri admitted. His shoulders lowered for the weight of a sight of discomfort. The idea he had just had about him and Victor having something in common was uttermost ridiculous. Victor was a native, born and raised in Saint Petersburg, the city’s darling. Yuuri was a foreigner and he would always be. 

Victor didn’t comment further on the subject, to Yuuri’s gratitude.

 

All in all, it was nice walking down the street, with the river’s waves shining in the early afternoon sun, Victor at his side and the occasional flash of Makkachin’s brown fur. Yuuri pinched his hand skin behind his back, but the scene didn’t disappear at all. He was strolling down the streets of St. Petersburg on a beautiful Sunday with no one but Victor Nikiforov walking with him. Oh dear, he was walking with Victor Nikiforov like they were friends. Like a couple. 

Suddenly Yuuri was painfully aware of the whole situation. At least there was almost no one around, or else unwelcomed rumours would start circulating. 

“S-sorry, but now I have to go,” Yuuri exclaimed abruptly, taking a step back. His stomach twisted in guilt for the wounded expression of disbelief on Victor’s face.

“I mean, this has been very nice. I enjoyed it and Makkachin is a sweetie. But I have to go. You know, work calls!” he blabbered. He scrambled away before Victor could reply. 

***

 

“So, how did it go? Did you invite him to dinner? Did he say yes?” 

Victor broke the amber-coloured crust of caramelized sugar on the top of his baked apple, filling a teaspoon with some soft pulp. He looked at Chris with a pitiful expression.

”No,” he groaned, filling his mouth with a spoonful of apple. Chris cocked an eyebrow at him from above his own cup of tea. 

“What do you mean, no?” Chris questioned. “You didn’t invite him or he didn’t accept?”

“The first!” 

“You didn’t invite him? Why?”

Victor sighed for the umpteenth time, the baked apple he had ordered under Chris’ insistence forgotten and left to get cold. He poked the yellow peel with the side of the silver spoon. He had anticipated his walk with Yuuri like a child waiting for his birthday cake, almost rehearsing the right words with which to invite him. Yuuri would accept, they would go to a nice place, maybe trying bites from each-other plates. He sighed again. The tearoom they had chosen for their little chat was bigger than the one Yuuri and the other danseurs attended. The pastries weren’t much better, but the owner must think otherwise, judging from the prices.

At the table next to theirs two sweethearts were feeding each-other bites of chak-chak directly from their sticky fingers. A little over, a countess who had seen too many springs was polishing her lips of any trace of cream, as to cancel all the evidence of her gluttony. Glancing around, Victor recognized some members of St. Petersburg small nobility; a baron who always bragged about his father having fought against Napoleon, Prince Gorchakov’s two maiden daughters, who were too old for hoping that someone will ever marry them for something other than their money. 

Several of those nobles were Victor’s father’s faithful customers, knowing he would always provide the best fabrics for their new suits and latest ball gowns. 

Still, the world of nobility and its most inner doors would be always closed for those not born from the same blood. The Nikiforovs were rich, often richer than some of the noblest and most ancient families in St. Petersburg, but they weren’t nobles. In time, Victor had learnt to talk with the aristocracy that composed the audience at the ballet shows, using the proper honorifics and the right gestures and poses, but he could always feel how he was a step under the nobles he spoke words with. They were careful for this fact to be never forgotten.

Chris snapped fingers right between Victor’s eyes. “Why? You seemed so ready. What happened?”

“He ran away before I could do that,” Victor lamented, letting the spoon fall on the clothed table. Chris shot Victor a disapproving look.

“Again, why?”

“I may have commented about him being a foreigner. I think I have offended him,” Victor confessed, setting aside his by now cold baked apple. He wasn’t hungry anymore. Chris pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. Victor had lost count of the time he had seen that expression on his friend’s face. He considered himself lucky to have Chris at his side, knowing other people wouldn’t be so patient. 

“You’re the worst, Vitka,” Chris declared, slowly, punctuating every single word. “Well, at least it’s not like he’s leaving for another city or something. You still have plenty of chances.”

“I’ll try again at the proper occasion,” Victor replied, a little reassured about the survival and possible brightness of his otherwise sad love life. He promised next time he would mind his tongue.

Unfortunately, the proper occasion didn’t happen anytime soon, as the moment was never proper enough in Victor’s opinion. On a brighter side, despite all, Yuuri seemed content to chat before a cup of tea when they had the occasion. Sometimes a gentle expression set on his delicate features, making him look content and at peace, a vision Victor would never get tired of admiring. It would only take a small gesture, few words but, for the first time, Victor preferred not to urge things. In truth, he didn’t feel the need. 

He feared any abrupt movement would scare Yuuri and chase him away with no possibility of correction. Victor couldn’t allow that. He considered the idea of inviting Yuuri for Easter lunch, an occasion that when he was little always brought together both relatives and family friends, but a voice inside his head told him it was too personal. Besides, he wasn’t sure Yuuri celebrated Easter. 

April turned into May. 

***

The month started well for Yuuri, with the pleasing surprise of finding a letter from home in the mailbox. Opening the missive and reading Mari’s reprimands, he made the silent promise to not let an excessive amount of time pass before answering it. 

_Dear brother,_

_Indeed you should apologise for having left us five months without any news from you whatsoever. We were worried sick!_

_Mail service is already slow, as you have so helpfully pointed out, without you delaying answering my letters. I know you are not a kid anymore, but a responsible adult. Still, I cannot help but feel worried knowing you are so far away from home. You are my little brother, after all._

_That being said, we are all happy to know you are fine, though mom insists you look too slim in the last photo you sent us._

_You ask if I remember the boy you saw dancing. I do not, as I have never seen him. But I remember my little brother coming home from a trip with our father with sparkling eyes, ranting about some Western dance and a certain someone with silver hair and blue eyes. I remember this. You are right, I remember you left home for someone I never had the chance to see._

_Now, you say you have to be honest with yourself; but I ask you: are you really honest? You are worth more than you someone could bargain for, this is what you said I would tell you. Which I am doing, not because I have the moral obligation to lift my little brother up, but because it is the truth. Once you said few people could hope to enter the Imperial Theatre School, still you managed, despite having begun later. You are part of a famous dance company and you perform on stage. There is enough to be proud of. I advise you to keep your head high because not everyone will come from a “foreign land” to pursue their dreams._

_What did he see in you? Maybe he saw a person with a strong will, who is not always kind or thoughtful but would do anything for the people he cared about. He saw something in you, enough to send you letters where he professed an interest. Let things be, despite how scary they seem. Life is not a fairytale and love overcoming all is something that can work in books, not in reality. Still, if Fate is offering you an opportunity, it would be stupid not to grasp it. You are strong enough to endure a failure and remember that you can always count on my support. We will always welcome you home with open arms._

_Take care of yourself_

_Your sister_

_P.S. You underestimate me. I made a pact with young Minami. He can have half the postcards and pictures you send home if he doesn’t try to sell anything else of yours._

_P.P.S Mom asks if she has to expect a marriage proposal by the end of the year_

Yuuri wondered if the last sentence wasn’t a small revenge on his sister’s part as it filled him with such embarrassment that, before he was aware, he was already answering the letter. 

The new month also marked the beginning of the preparation for the autumn season. The past autumn Mariinsky had staged Coppelia, while Swan Lake would be on for a few weeks more.

The current season hadn’t ended yet and already the theatre was preparing for the new one. Extraordinarily, the company would stage an original production, a prospect that thrilled everyone who hadn’t manifested to consider the idea crazy at best; especially after having discovered the new ballet concept seemed to come from nothing but Victor’s own fervent imagination. There were people who insisted Victor had been inspired by a lyrical opera while in Paris or, at least, by a fairy-tale. The fact was, however, that neither opera nor fairytale existed with an ever seemingly similar plot. 

_Soblazneniye printsa [3]_ , “The seduction of the prince” was the new ballet name. 

Not even a week after the new choreography was announced the truth had already turned into legend. Among the various gossips, all distorted and magnified each time they passed from mouth to mouth, the rumours that Victor was sending a message to a lover quickly raised in popularity. The hypothesis was the ballerinas’ favourite, especially younger ones, but danseurs didn’t seem immune to the charm growing around the new ballet. 

The choreography told an overall simple story. A Prince falls in love with a beautifully cold, cruel and terrible creature that seduces him away to his destruction. Useless are the attempts of another creature, a Fairy born of light and God’s benevolence, to try and protect the poor fellow. In the end, the Prince, desperate and fool from love, tears his heart out of his own chest as an offer to the evil creature and dies. 

Since both the creatures were genderless, the roles were open to all dancers over a certain age willing to try the auditions, which would be at the end of the month. As for the role of the protagonist, few doubted Victor would grab the part. It would be his by right, being the first danseur but, apparently, Madame Baranovskaya wished to test him, for fear he would get complacent. According to a terrible imitation of her done by Victor, “He should be just grateful that the artistic director had decided to give _Soblazneniye printsa_ a chance. Having the leading role without working for it was out of discussion.”

The day of Yuuri’s audition was sultry, the air full of tension and animosity. Any signs of camaraderie between members of the same dance company had all disappeared in favour of a cutthroat competition. Already three times Yuuri had heard people accusing each other of spying and stealing choreography, accounting only for the latest week. 

Dancer, both females and males, kept coming in and out the room in an endless stream. Their faces told the story of how well or bad they have danced, but Yuuri didn’t dare to check, afraid it would destroy his resolution. Instead, he kept his head ducked, forehead resting on his kneecaps.

“This is so unfair!” a voice exclaimed.

Yuuri lifted his head, tilting it toward the origin of the sound. Standing next to him, facing the door, was a teenage boy, brow furrowed in anger.

“Hello, Yuri,” Yuuri greeted. His namesake shrugged. 

Yuri Plisetsky was fifteen and a promising danseur. His dancing as a fairy of the court of Sugarplum in the Nutcracker had gained him the nickname of Russian Fairy. Any apparent grace, however, dropped the second he opened his foul mouth. 

“Don’t talk to me! Why can’t I audition?” He lamented, waving his arms against the world’s injustice. Yuri might be good, but he still had several more years of training before being allowed to perform on stage in a major role. He never lost the occasion to express how much he was displeased with the idea. He looked down at Yuuri with pursed lips.

“Speaking of which, what role are you auditioning for?”

Yuuri told Yuri, which gained him a solid laugh. “The Seducer! That’s funny. Well, good luck!”

As Yuri walked away, his words were already digging doubts in Yuuri’s brain. Yuuri pressed his fists against his temple, rehearsing the choreography in his mind, feet tickling in anticipation. He was ready, he repeated. He was prepared. He wouldn’t flub anything this time. He repeated it like a mantra until his turn arrived. 

Still, this audition wasn’t going to be an easy one. During a casual meeting, Victor had half let slip how he thought Yuuri was perfect for the role, but Yuuri also knew the last decision wasn’t Victor’s. Moreover, if words got out about a possible preference for him from Victor’s side, getting the part would mean hate from whoever hadn’t been chosen. People would say he passed the audition, not for his talent, but because he had made sweet eyes to Victor. It was something Yuuri couldn’t allow. It would destroy both Victor’s and his public image. Yuuri didn’t doubt Victor could easily recover, but the same wasn’t true for him. 

He moved with few gracious steps to the centre of the stage, falling into first position, shoulders relaxed and arms down. Three ballet masters chaired the audition, among which was Madame Baranovskaya. 

Yuuri swallowed, clearing his voice to remind the others of his name and the role he was auditioning for. After a nod from Lilia Baranovskaya, Yuuri immersed himself in the choreography he had prepared. 

Neither the choreography nor the part Yuuri had chosen were easy. The role of the seducer was as far from his true self as the moon from Earth. It was also the second most important role after the protagonist, with as much as stage time, and Yuuri was aiming so hard for it his chest ached. 

He went for slow, fluid movements, balancing between leading and being led. A _pas de chat_ to get away from the invisible prince and a series of _fouettés_ right after, to capture him in a glowing net.

Yuuri put his soul into his dancing, mind unaware of anything but the music. He knew his technique was good, but not flawless, and he hadn’t any hope to win the part if he relied only on it. 

Instead, if he wanted to surprise, to make the ballet masters remember his face among tens of others, he had to translate emotions into movements. Whoever was watching him had to stop thinking about judging his every step and instead fall prey to the story he was narrating on stage.

Minako-sensei’s training in traditional Japanese dance, all her teaching about facial expression and amount of finesse a simple twirl of the head or a swift of a foot could have, all was coming back in handy. Yuuri invoked the memory of his homeland folklore, careful to dose it right: enough that the judges would perceive something was different, but not enough for them to understand why. In Japan, Yuuri’s mother used to tell him stories of _Jorōgumo_ [4] to warn him not to wander in the woods, describing the creature beautiful, glossy, long black hair, the snow-white skin and the red lips with which _Jorōgumo_ lured travellers in her web. 

The ballet was about a cruel mistress, so Yuuri danced like _Jorōgumo_ , the woman-spider, the seductress, the man-eater. 

“Enough!”

At Madame Lilia’s command, Yuuri stopped holding the final pose, returning his body to a first position. He bowed slightly toward the ballet masters to thank them for the opportunity and subtly ask permission to leave. Lilia blocked him with a wave of her hand.

“That was intense,” she said, careful to choose the right word, to not lose her impartiality since the auditions weren’t finished yet. “What were you thinking?”

Yuuri wondered if a similar question had been posed to everyone who endured the audition before him, or if something in his performance had put the seeds of doubt in her mind. Though he wished to transmit something with all his being, he wasn’t sure about what message had been conveyed. During the dance, for the first time ever, he had felt powerful and strong, with every fibre of his body vibrating from him being in control of himself. When he danced, when he could immerse in this choreography, the storm of thoughts that often crashed his mind subsided. Everything was like it was meant to be, perfectly calibrated.

Besides, Victor’s return and his new presence in Yuuri’s life had given him a new confidence. For some unknown reason, some personality trait Yuuri wasn’t aware of, Victor Nikiforov had developed an interest in him. Yuuri kept repeating it was only kindness and courtesy but, deep under layers of low self-esteem and self-doubts there was a voice telling him nobody else could brag about having Victor watching their training or chatting with them in a tearoom. As far as Yuuri knew, nobody could say they had a pile of letters full of compliments signed “Sincerely Yours, Victor” to read in moments of discomfort. 

It might be a delusion, but it was Yuuri’s to control. It was time for the seduced to become the seducer. Something in Yuuri’s stomach twisted. It was not the determination, which had always pushed him back on his feet, but something deeper. If Victor couldn’t be his in real life, at least he would be on stage and in the realm of sweet illusion. The curtain would lift, the stage would light, and for two hours Yuuri could have Victor Nikiforov in the palm of his hand.

He yelped internally at his own thoughts. The person thinking these things wasn’t him, but the _persona_ built for that particular audition. Yuuri knew he had no chance to keep Victor for himself outside the theatre. It was for the hope of becoming good enough to share the stage with Victor he had decided to leave behind everything he knew. For years Victor had continued to escape, voices about his immediate return to Russia from France always proving false in the end, until last autumn. Now Victor was within reach and Yuuri could almost dare to stretch out his hand and touch him.

“That I want to dance with the Prince,” Yuuri answered with simple honesty. Madame Lilia’s lip corners quivered: she knew who Yuuri’s Prince was. 

“So, how did it go?” Yuri blocked Yuuri as soon as he exited the room. Yuuri smiled sheepishly. 

“Not bad, I guess.”

Yuri made a disgusted face. “That part should’ve been mine,” he reiterated, glancing at the ballerina who was being called inside. “I don’t think you’ll get the part, but if you get it and you don’t put your soul in it, I swear I’ll beat you up!” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Yuuri let out a liberating laugh, tension accumulated before and during the audition melting away thanks to Yuri’s frown. It made him look like a kitten: proud and potentially dangerous, but overall adorable and innocuous. 

 

Even if Yuuri would’ve liked to forget about the auditions, since it was easier to put them aside until the final verdict instead of dwelling on his performance, he couldn’t. They were on everybody’s mouth, everyone discussing what they did - or may have done- wrong, giving advice to those who had yet to try their luck or sabotaging each other. It was like a heavy cloud of madness had descended over the theatre. It happened at the beginning of every new season. 

“I’m glad I said goodbye to all this, years ago,” Mila exclaimed, pouring another spoonful of sugar in her tea. She had a sweet tooth. 

They were sitting at the usual tearoom, on a Saturday afternoon. In his latest letter, Victor had told Yuuri he and his friend Chris would be there to enjoy the day and he would be delighted if Yuuri could join them. Victor didn’t write a letter a day anymore, and some of them were either short or repetitive, but finding an envelope with Victor signature on it never failed to make Yuuri’s heart flutter. 

_It would be a pleasure_ , Yuuri had written back, frowning at the formality of his words. He had scratched the first attempt in favour of a more direct _It would be nice_.

Mila had joined them too, taking the free seat and only asking afterwards if she could sit down with them. Nobody had had a problem in any case. On the contrary, Yuuri was grateful for the presence of other people, which made the whole arrangement as nothing more but a meal between friends. Nothing more. 

It wasn’t always this casual. Sometimes his time alone with Victor felt too much like a date and each time Yuuri had to suppress the impulse to run away. Every time he and Victor sat face to face, Yuuri couldn’t force himself to look up at Victor. Instead, he let his eyes wander around, checking if somebody was watching them, but his doubts rarely found confirmation in the reality. Nonetheless, there were cases in which Yuuri interpreted someone’s innocent expression into one of reproach, which sent him jolting from the seat and out of the tea-room before Victor could ask for an explanation. 

Yuuri felt terrible every time. Every time he looked in the mirror in the ballet room, pointed a finger at his reflection, and ordered himself to stop stressing this much. Doing a brief calculation, he had met with Victor at the tearoom around six times, not counting the present occasion, and he still hadn’t learnt how to control his emotions. Yuuri had welcomed the recent invitation as a new opportunity and promised himself he wouldn’t run away again. 

Plus, the usual Friday meeting was cancelled last-minute because of Victor’s obligations.

One day the opportunities will have ended. Yuuri drank a sip of tea to set the thought aside.

“You’re justified, but I still can’t understand why he doesn’t want to try out?” Victor was lamenting, indicating Chris who was cutting bites from his big slice of _Napoleon cake_ , being technically still on holiday and not having to care about diet as much as the others. 

“I told you, I plan to return to Switzerland in September, via ship. I cannot stay here for the whole autumn season,” Chris repeated with the subtle exasperation of a mother explaining the same thing to her child for the umpteenth time. 

“Why would you want to go back to Switzerland?” Victor protested. 

“Well, contrary to someone, I tend to miss home.”

“You wouldn’t even see the première!”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure your première will be delightful. I want to expand my horizon and the Italian scene seems interesting,” Chris wondered out loud. Mila lit up. 

“Oh, I know an Italian family, the Crispinos. I met Sara during a trip to Naples a couple years ago, charming place. I could write to her, as a mutual contact,” she proposed. 

“That would be nice. Besides, even if I did the audition, for what role. The Prince’s best friend who tried to warn him against the danger of love?” Chris added, glancing at Victor, though Yuuri couldn’t put aside the sensation Chris was watching him too. He feigned interest in his baked apple.

“Worth a try,” he heard Victor’s comment.

Mila was the first to take her leave, lamenting how she had a dinner with a certain aunt and needed to get ready before someone started looking for her. Chris followed soon after. Yuuri grabbed teacup and plate and exchanged his current seat, on the opposite side to Victor, for Mila’s former, at his right. Victor’s eyes widened in surprise but, in the end, he accepted the change as an improvement, even shifting a bit in his seat until his hips were brushing against Yuuri’s. At least sitting next to each other made them look less like a couple.

“This is good!”

Victor was holding a fork bite of _medovik [5]_ inches from Yuuri’s mouth, whispering about how good it was and that a bite wouldn’t kill anyone. Well, the cake smelled good and the more Victor insisted on feeding him as if they were two lovebirds, the more stares they would attract. Yuuri accepted the bite in haste, teeth clashing against the metal of the little fork.

“Yeah, good,” he muttered, ears on fire, the honey melting on his tongue and mingling with the refreshing whipped cream. 

“Since we’re talking about it, how did your audition go?” Yuuri asked after a moment of silence, not before having accepted yet another bite from Victor. The question sounded stupid the instant it was posed. Of course, Victor’s audition was nothing but great. In all honesty, Yuuri didn’t even think Victor had to bother with an audition for the protagonist part. The picture of it being assigned to someone else was ridiculous.

“Quite well, though I still feel there’s something missing in the choreography. Lilia was serious for the whole test, but with her is not always necessarily a bad thing.”

“I think she smiled at me,” Yuuri muttered, pouring some more water from the samovar and choosing a new brew to try. Russian teas were black in colour, rich, stronger than the Japanese variety, tasting a little smoky on the tongue. “For a moment, really, the blink of an eye.”

“Well, that’s a good thing. I really hope you get the part, Yuuri.”

Yuuri shrugged, his head set into his shoulders, not knowing what to say. Most of the time he thought Victor’s faith in him was at best misplaced, but he couldn’t deny he had done an almost perfect audition. Or, he believed it was perfect. He hoped for it. He had prayed for it. Dear god, auditions were tiring.

“Victor?” Yuuri called, the name heavy on the tongue. When Victor faced him, he had the sensation one day he would drown in those blue eyes. He swallowed, teeth biting his own lips because Victor was always too close. Yuuri could almost count the number of Victor’s silver eyelashes, which left soft shadows on his fair skin. Yuuri wondered again if Victor hadn’t been modelled by a piece of ice in which some deities had breathed life afterwards, pouring powder of stars on his new-born body. 

“If you’re free next Sunday, we could have lunch together. Nothing demanding. There’s a nice place in Grand Morskaya with good caviar and vegetable soups,” he proposed, ignoring the twist in his stomach. He spoke quickly before embarrassment could force the words back into his throat. 

The place Yuuri had in mind had good cooking but wasn’t in the top ten of the most frequented places in town, so the risks of being caught were fewer. Besides, between him and Victor, there was nothing apart from a good relationship between colleagues, Yuuri told himself like he had already done a thousand times before.

Deep inside he was aware he wasn’t fooling anyone. He was too aware.

“Well, that sounds good, but what about tomorrow?” Victor countered. 

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes. Tomorrow is Sunday too. Are you busy?”

Yuuri did a brief mental recap of what he had planned to do the day after. At the end of the analysis, he found nothing that couldn’t be re-arranged on a different time schedule.

“No, indeed.”

Victor clapped his hands as if to secure a deal, a wide grin spreading on his face. “Wonderful. So tomorrow after mass we could take Makkachin out and have lunch together. Is that to your liking?”

Yuuri smiled his approval behind his cup of tea.

_Chris! Sorry for my bad writing, but I am too excited to care about form. You would not believe it, but today Yuuri invited me to lunch. I’ll try to remember to keep my sharp tongue under control. No pun intended!_

_Vitya_

_My friend,_

_I’m happy to hear that. I know how blunt your tongue can be at times, but you seem already well aware of it. Thus I will refrain from scolding you again and only wish you the best of luck._

_Chris_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] A traditional Russian shirt, with a side-fastening. In the 1900s it became quite famous among the members of the Russian intelligentsia  
> [2] Fairy in Japanese folklore  
> [3] This fictional ballet has two inspirations. One is for sure the story behind the Eros choreography. The other is an Italian song (which in turn is taken from a French song, The chanson of Marie des Anges) called “The ballad of blind love”  
> Here a nice English translation (http://www.as.miami.edu/personal/sevnine/amorecieco.htm)  
> [4] A woman-spider monster of Japanese folklore  
> [5] Honey cake
> 
> And the second chapter is here! Thank you for reading and a special thanks to who commented, left a kudos, or subscribed! 
> 
> As always my greatest thanks goes to [ Artsdefine05](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artdefines06/pseuds/Artdefines06) and [ Curlavski](http://curlavski.tumblr.com), without forgetting [ rogovich](https://rogovich.tumblr.com)
> 
> A curiosity: in Imperial Russia people were divided into social estates (soslovie), which defined the status of a person. Maybe in the 1900s the borders between classes were less strict than before, but their presence still regulated Russian people life (at least from what one can understand reading books about the period).  
> People living in the city could be hereditary or honorary important citizens (two special categories one could reach with special merits); then merchants; literats; artisans; urban commoners. Some soslovie could be inherited from the father, others no.  
> So, in which social estate is Victor? No one of what I’ve just quoted, but an extra category (raznochintsy), which comprised all the people that for a reason or the other didn’t belong to any other social estate. A nutritious number of intelligentsia members were raznochintsy.
> 
>  
> 
> Finally, a clarification on the only controversial point in this chapter. I have specified it in the chapter itself, but to be extra sure: Yuuri in this AU is shinto. He has a picture of Amaterasu in his bedroom and he prays the Shinto divinities. However, for I wanted to keep a certain level of historical accuracy, the late 1800s and early 1900s was a period of heavy Russification in the country and with people not following the Orthodox religion being persecuted. This is why Yuuri goes to church, because it is a way to not be noticed. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you again for reading! If you liked the story, please click that kudos button and make an author happy! Comments are always appreciated!
> 
> Feeling too shy to comment, but want to talk with the author? Hit me at gwen-chan.tumblr.it!


	3. Comme un pas de deux

**Comme un pas de deux**

_Dear Misha,_

_I must face the truth: my Viten’ka is in love. This evening he returned home floating as if above the ground, with a smile I must admit I haven’t seen on him in a long time. At dinner, though he tried to refrain from pining excessively over the salted salmon, several times the name of his beloved escaped his lips. Katsuki Yuuri. I must admit it rings some bells. From what I have understood from Victor, he is a danseur and was among the people invited to the party last December. Curse my bad memory. It’s one of the things I wish Viten’ka hadn’t inherited. It is a bliss that Illič is such a good bookkeeper or my business would have already gone to hell._

_In any case, I guess I must abandon the idea of seeing someone in the family to take over the business. The matter, however, is of secondary importance in respect to my dear son’s happiness, so I won’t lament too much on it. Since Victor doesn’t seem interested in taking on the family business, I’ll have to search for someone else. Your eldest son, maybe? Try to test the waters._

_Lyosha_

_Dear Lyosha,_

_It seems yesterday that Vitya was only a nine-year-old boy, carefully holding Mila in his arms the day of her baptism and now he is a man and my Ljuda has grown into a beautiful woman. I fear the day she'll find someone worth her heart. But this isn't the right time to talk about me._

_Yuuri Katsuki, you say? The name is not new to my ears either. I suppose Ljuda must have mentioned something about him. She is far more interested in convincing me to let her indulge in another holiday in Italy next year, though. I suppose she will win, like every time before. Moreover, if she truly has the intention to go, she will, no matter my final decision._

_About your proposal regarding Vanya, he is still in a phase of doubts after the end of his active conscription - your Vitya had been really lucky to avoid the service - but I will introduce him to the subject as soon as possible. He had a certain talent with numbers, despite not as accurate as Ljuda._

_If no business requires your attention for the afternoon, I would gladly enjoy your company the day after tomorrow at my place. There you can witness first hand how Vanya has grown. If I am not mistaken, it's been a few years since you saw him last time. He’s a year younger than your son._

_Misha_

While Mikhail Babichev was finishing this letter, in another part of town Yuuri was laying in bed, his eyes glued to the ceiling and his legs engaged in some light exercises to disperse nervous energy. The room was immersed in darkness, the night still heavy on the town, though it wouldn't last for much longer. Days lasted long at these latitudes.

Yuuri sighed and rolled on one side, an arm hanging outside the mattress. In few hours he would eat lunch face to face with Victor. Yuuri had had the courage to invite Victor and Victor had accepted. The thought was enough to make Yuuri lose sleep. Considering his tendency to panic anytime he was in Victor's company in public, the invitation sounded like the plan of a fool. For sure, such a hazardous decision would soon reveal consequences. Still, Yuuri's innermost soul didn't regret the decision, repeating a reassuring mantra of how he had nothing to worry about. If Victor liked his company, just as Yuuri enjoy spending time with Victor, he could well calm down a bit and prepare to enjoy his afternoon.

The day after, in church, Yuuri's mouth moved without thinking about what he was doing, his mind spacing out to make the time pass faster. 

The inside of the church was stuffy, enough to cause him a headache, and Yuuri was glad when the faithful were finally dismissed. He made his way in the crowd toward the exit, searching for Victor. Once he spotted him, Yuuri waved to make his presence noticed.

As they did a few Sundays prior, they stopped by Victor's place to pick up an excited Makkachin, who stood up on his hind legs to lick Yuuri's face in welcome.

”Makkachin, down!” Victor commanded, in a not-very-convincing tone. A small laugh bubbled up in Yuuri's chest, surging in a smile. It was a fresh day, a bit cold, but overall pleasant. Yuuri soon lost himself in the scenery, Makkachin’s enthusiastic jumps and Victor's occasional talking. The streets were a bit livelier than the previous time, but Yuuri forced himself to not worry about it, walking with his hands in the pockets of his pants. A light wind ruffled his hair. Something wet hit his nose. Yuuri lifted his gaze. A soft, grey cloud was blotting out the sun. More raindrops fell, leaving little round marks of their passage on the pavement. Yuuri took off his glasses to dry them with the hem of his shirt.

“Must be a passenger cloud,” Victor commented. Makkachin barked and sniffed the air. Distant thunder shook the sky. Makkachin barked louder, bumping his head against Victor's leg for comfort.

The sky opened up.

Victor crossed his arms above his head, as if it might be of some help, and huffed.

“We should go back to my place. It's nearer. Care to run?” he proposed, already walking faster. More thunder broke the silence. Clouds quickly amassed, ready to pour their entire load on those under them.

Yuuri hastened to keep up with Victor's pace. Cold water rivulets ran down his nape and into his collar shirt, eliciting a shiver. All the shops where they could have found shelter were closed at such time of day. No canopies in sight. Yuuri swept away his fringe from his eyes.

“Deal!”

They ran through St. Petersburg streets chasing each other, zig-zagging to avoid the puddles forming on the ground. Their soles splashed against the wet pavement in a fantasy of droplets. Yuuri half-lidded his eyes to protect them from the rain. The water on his glasses made it difficult to see clearly. His spleen hurt from the run. Once he almost tripped over himself. Still, despite everything, despite the unfortunate situation, something inside him laughed. Running under the rain with Victor was a completely unforeseen scenario, which sparkled with life in its absurd normality. It reminded Yuuri of the times when summer showers took him and his sister by surprise while playing in the fields and their mother dried their heads with a towel.

He ran with Victor under the rain and couldn't help but notice how Victor's silver threads captured the water drops like pearls in a fragile crown.

The downpour lasted only a few minutes. However, it was enough to soak them to the bones. By the time they arrived at Victor's home, the rain had reverted to a drizzle.

Victor fixed the key into the lock of the door leading in from the street. It opened with a sound clank. Makkachin ran past him and upstairs. They heard him whining and scratching at the Nikiforov’s apartment door.

Victor smiled, fondly. “Well,” he said, “shall we follow him.”

“Follow?” Yuuri questioned with a puzzled look.

“Why, we can't go to lunch in these wet clothes. Come in, I'll find something for you to wear.”

Victor took the first step in, soon followed by Yuuri. On the landing, he almost took his shoes off. In the end, he only dried the soles against the doormat. Victor held the door open for Yuuri, who thanked, and swifted inside. Alina, the housemaid, was on them instantly, carrying a rag.

”You're soaked! Vitya, what were you thinking? Go change before catching a cold. You can't allow that. I'll prepare a hot tea. And this poor thing,” she pointed at Yuuri, “There must be some of Vitya's clothes from when he was younger. Something your size. What are you still doing here? Go!”

From the dining room came the sound of cutlery against dishes. 

Yuuri stood in place, paralyzed by confusion. Apart from the party night, he had never seen Victor's home from the inside. Now he had the chance and it was gorgeous. He peered through the living room open door. 

The first time with all the other people he hadn't grasped the exquisiteness of the furniture, the painting on the walls, the knickknacks scattered around. A massive oak clock ticked the time. A Persian carpet with an intricate pattern covered the wooden floor. Yuuri's attention was captured by a traditional Japanese ukyo-e stamp hung above the aquamarine couch. It portrayed two young girls in fancy kimonos crossings a wooden bridge, with Mount Fuji standing against the horizon.

“Beautiful, isn't it? A client of mine gifted it some years ago. It's an original Hokusai.” 

Aleksey Nikiforov had materialized in the salon, wearing a silky robe. 

“You must be Yuuri. Aleksey Andreevič,” he introduced himself. Yuuri bowed slightly and sniffled. Victor took his hand, sending a jolt all over his arm. Victor’s hands were dry and warm.

“Come on or you'll catch flu. Papa, you can brag about your generous clients later,” Victor interjected, tugging Yuuri by the sleeve. Aleksey called his son one last time.

“Vitya, this afternoon at four we are guests to the Babichevs!” he reminded him. Victor cried that he remembered over his shoulder. 

As if being in Victor's home wasn't already enough for Yuuri's poor heart, stepping into Victor's bedroom was simply unsustainable. Somebody must have decided he was to die that day, on a May afternoon. Cause: heart-attack. 

Victor reached behind his back and lifted his shirt over his head, tossing it on the curtained bed. Yuuri lips parted a little. Flames reddened his cheeks. Victor's chest was a work of art; a lean figure, well-chiselled muscles in pale, smooth skin. Yuuri's mouth dried. Only by sheer willpower could Yuuri divert his gaze from the man of his desires. There was a Virgin Mary icon above the bedside table. Yuuri peered a little in the corner of the eye, only to discover Victor was kicking off his pants and Yuuri frantically went back to studying the craftsmanship of the Virgin Mary golden halo and sapphire blue coat.

“You're going to catch a cold,” Victor reminded him again. Yuuri resigned to take off his shirt, in the very least. There was no way he was standing in undergarments before Victor. The sudden shame felt silly. He came from a country where men bathed naked together and dancers changed before each other all the time. Only this was neither a hot spring nor a theatre changing room and Victor wasn't a simple anyone. His sole presence was enough to make Yuuri feel self-conscious with clothes on, let alone half-naked.

He peered again. Victor had exchanged his wet trousers, pooled on the carpet, for a dry pair and was fastening the collar of a garnet red kosovorotka.

Somebody knocked at the door: Alina, with fresh clothes for Yuuri and a pair of fluffy towels. She also informed them tea was ready. 

“We'll take it another time,” Victor refused with an apologetic glance. Alina pursued her lips. “There is always time for tea!” she chastised, throwing her hands in the air. She walked away muttering about how the years away had ruined Victor.

Yuuri suppressed a smile despite everything. He examined the garments she had brought. One was a creme-coloured kosovorotka, stitched in red and blue around the collar, the hem, and the cuffs in complicated nesting diamonds pattern. A thin sash circled the waist. The cloth was soft to the touch. The other was a pair of light wool pants. Yuuri pressed the bundle of clothes to his chest, taking a deep breath. His mouth opened to ask Victor if he could change in some guest room he didn’t doubt must be present in the apartment, but no sound exited from Yuuri’s lips. He hugged the clothes even tighter, shaking his head from side to side. He was a grown man, who shouldn’t be ashamed to change before another grown man, who only happened to be as handsome as sin and his idol. If he had a problem with showing a bit of skin, he could never hope to seduce a whole audience on stage.

“Could you please turn around?” Yuuri eventually asked Victor, moving his index finger to gesture his request. Victor complied, covering his eyes with his hands. Yuuri quickly finished undressing and re-dressed. Despite being from Victor's young days, both the shirt and the pants were a little over-sized. The pants could have used a sash and the shirt's sleeves were a bit too long. In the overall, however, they felt good.

”Can I turn?” Victor joked.

“Ah ... yes, yes.”

Victor spun on the heel, let his hands drop, and his eyes lit up. Yuuri tormented the hem of the shirt, curling his toes inside his shoes.

“You look good in it, Yuuri,” was Victor's judgement. Yuuri muttered his thanks.

“I haven't seen that kosovorotka in ages. I think it was before those six months in Japan,” Victor added, scratching his chin. Yuuri dropped his gaze to study the shirt's decoration. It was from when Victor had been to Tokyo, from when their paths had begun to cross.

“It's very nice,” he said in the end

***

The air was fresh after the rain. A whitish sun shone high in the grey sky. The puddles on the ground reflected the surrounding palaces in a fragmented pattern. Victor was carrying an umbrella in case the sky would decide to throw them another downpour. Yuuri started to fantasize about having to curl under the umbrella, his body pressed against Victor's in the attempt to share the little protection, maybe having Victor's arm around his waist to save space. Yuuri diverted his gaze in haste, pretending to check the sign indicating the name of the street they were on. Fantasies were a dangerous place to venture. 

They arrived at the lunch place after a few minutes. The front door was open, the bell attached above ringing in the wind. From the front window, where giant letters in golden calligraphy communicated the name of the place, crates of fruits and vegetables could be seen. Piles of red and yellow apples stood next to violet aubergines, along with rich green zucchinis and cabbages. Red turnips shone proudly right on the front, while orange carrots occupied the back. The ambience was lively with the sound of people enjoying a good meal or discussing the price of the vegetables. The owner of the place signed to Yuuri and Victor to sit where they pleased. They choose a table far from the entrance, a nice position to look at the outside street and the crowds coming and going. Yuuri ordered a cabbage soup, Victor some borscht and, despite Yuuri’s insistence against it, a plate of caviar to share. 

“So, next week right?” Victor said, after a spoonful of hot soup. It took Yuuri a moment to realize he was talking about the audition results. He poked at a cabbage piece in his own soup. 

“Yes. Honestly, I'm feeling more nervous each passing day,” he confessed, lowering his gaze down on his plate. Victor had an elegant way of eating and Yuuri feltpainfullyself-conscious about his teeth scraping against the spoons metallic surface or every slurping sound.

“Don't be, I'm sure you did great. I already told you,” Victor replied. Yuuri wished he could believe him. He truly wished it. Instead, he could only think about how the final choice wasn't up to Victor. At least Madame Baranovskaya had smiled, if only for a fraction of second, if that could be interpreted as a positive sign.

“So, do you like the food?” Yuuri resumed, hoping to shift the conversation on something not involving ballet. It would help ease his nerves. Victor made a content sound, swallowing a bit of beetroot covered in thick sour-cream.

“Very” - another spoon of soup - “Borscht is a thing I missed a lot while in France,” Victor confessed. 

Yuuri made a wondering sound. 

“Weren't there Russian restaurants in Paris?” he wondered, stretching out a hand to pick some caviar. It tasted rich on his tongue, almost buttery. The smell prickled at his nose. He would not go beyond few spoons, because of his diet, but inside he thanked Victor for having insisted on ordering the plate.

“Yes. But it's not the same thing!”

Yuuri nodded. Experiencing it first hand, he could understand how difficult was to find the same flavours of home in another town, another country. During his first days in St. Petersburg Yuuri had tried to replicate some Hasetsu dishes with the available ingredients, hoping the lack of seasoning or ingredient substitutions wouldn't affect the final product. He was wrong and every attempt had been nothing but a sad, shadowy imitation. Eventually, he had given up.

“Right. There's this dish I used to eat back home and although it's been years since the last time I had it, sometimes I still crave it,” Yuuri confessed, trying not to sound excessively desperate. He had set aside homesickness years ago and had no intention of appearing pitiful before someone, Victor Nikiforov above all. Luckily, Victor only smiled his sympathy for Yuuri's situation.

“Do you like borscht?” Victor questioned, gathering what remained of the soup in his spoon, but not bringing it to his mouth. Instead, when Yuuri gave him his affirmative answer, he picked up the spoon careful not to slosh the liquid around and offered it to Yuuri, a hand placed underside in care.

“Have a taste,” Victor invited. The spoon was few centimetres from Yuuri's mouth, the sour cream smell strong and acrid. Yuuri glanced around at the others tables, embarrassment surging from his chest and painting his cheeks red. People around him seemed more interested in their food or purchases, but that didn't ease things in the slightest. A glimmer of silver and purple flickered in his eyes, as Yuuri resigned to lean over enough to taste the soup from Victor's spoon.

It was good, really. Yuuri had had it a few times before, but enough weeks had passed since the last time, so he could enjoy the soup’s taste as if the first time. Victor's expression told Yuuri his reaction must be more visible than expected, so he picked up a handkerchief to clean his lips and hide half his face behind it.

“I like this place,” Victor commented and Yuuri was grateful for his talkative personality, which prevented any silence from lasting excessively long. “I'm glad you suggested it.”

“I'm glad too.”

Somehow they ended up talking about the Nikiforovs’ merchant trade and how Victor at the tender age of five had broken any of Aleksey’s hopes about having an heir in the business when he had expressed his intention to dance with an expression so sweet, “Papa could only go with it.”

“So now?”

“Maybe Vanya, Mila’s brother, will take over the business. Or Mila. She’s pretty good with numbers.”

Yuuri nodded, making an understanding sound. He would’ve never have thought to find yet another thing in common with Victor, besides ballet and having been away home for a long time; just like him, Victor had abandoned a laid out path to pursue another dream.

“You know, my family too would’ve liked for me to take over the business,” Yuuri found himself saying. 

“And what was the solution?”

“I went abroad to study dance and my sister helped with the business.”

“What business?”

“A type of hot-spring, like a _banya_ ,” Yuuri answered, voice slowly growing in confidence, before ending up explaining to a very attentive Victor the wonders of Japanese hot springs. 

The lunch ended much earlier than Yuuri expected or would like. Fishing in his pockets for some kopeks, he noticed he was still wearing Victor's clothes. The kosovorotka had felt so comfortable and familiar Yuuri had forgotten it wasn't his and he was supposed to give it back once his own shirt had dried.

“Victor?” he called, once outside the _fructaria_ , fidgeting with the hem of the garment, his fingers tracing the embroidery, “we need to go back to your place. I need to retrieve my clothes.”

“Keep it,” Victor said, dismissing any protests about to come out of Yuuri's mouth with an elegant gesture. “It suits you, really. I'll send you your dry clothes.”

Yuuri was tempted to protest again against Victor’s offer, saying he couldn't, in any possible universe, accept to keep Victor's clothing; but he had the impression it would be useless. Furthermore, he would be lying to himself if he said he was displeased with the afternoon's outcome. Walking away from Victor, after the proper goodbyes, he ran his fingertips on the soft fabric. Victor Nikiforov had given him a kosovorotka from his younger days, something other people would kill for. Yuuri supposed somebody would kill him to have it if they ever discovered it was in Yuuri's hands. Though he doubted people kept a careful documentation on Victor's clothing since 1891 to today. Still, he decided the shirt would not be worn in public.

*** 

The results of the auditions were displayed on Wednesday morning, on a board in the entry hall. As soon as the building opened, everyone amassed to peer at the paper revealing who would be crowned in glory and who was beaten in skill and prowess. Some yelps of victory emerged among a general muttering of defeat. The majority of those gathering around the board had tried out for some minor roles. They jumped on place in a little victory dance, friends back to congratulating each other. But there was no shortage of those who had aimed for important parts. The Prince. The Seducer. Those were the ones who stormed away in delusion, protesting against the impartiality of the judges. 

Yuuri waited for the bulk of the crowd to disperse before nudging his way up to the paper. He peered over the shoulder of a ballerina more or less his age. Victor's name stood proud and clear next to PRINCE, if someone had ever had any doubt. Victor's long-standing rival, Georgi, had surprisingly got the part of the Fairy who tries to save the hero – an interesting choice given the roles Georgi was famous for. A name Yuuri didn't recognize would be the Prince's best friend, while Yuri would be a member of Georgi's court.

Finally, Yuuri dared to look at the line with SEDUCER written in big capital letters. He saw his name and his heart leapt in his throat. He saw also four other names, written both above and under his own, in alphabetical order. He knew at least by sight all of the dancers to which they belong. Three men, two women. A note explained the final choice would be taken after a second audition on Friday. This time, they would dance with Victor on stage. 

One of the ballerinas was a dark beauty and a fearsome ballerina called Sofja Bulgakova. The part of Odile and Odette had been hers the previous season and she had the potential to be a perfect Seducer. Yuuri looked again at his name among the others, pride and fear mixing together in his chest. Friday was imminent, not enough time to prepare a proper new choreography. Yuuri inhaled deeply at the challenge at hand; he would have to rely on the old one and adapting it around Victor's presence in flesh and bone. 

Everyone on the list had their points of strengths and of weaknesses, everyone was in the same condition of not having enough time.

A voice inside Yuuri told him he had something the others didn't: a glimpse of Victor's inner self. He had a burning desire to dance with Victor on the same level; not for the glory, but to prove his own worth. Yuuri was aware that for each of those named the role may be the chance of a lifetime. It was always the chance of a lifetime. However, for Yuuri, it may truly be his last chance, as his body was already showing signs of deterioration. Another year, maybe two, before being forced to abandon the demands of principal roles altogether. Yuuri could continue to dwell in the darkness for some other years, the spotlight shining on someone younger and better than him.

For once, just for once, for a season, few days, an hour, he wanted to be in the spotlight with Victor. He wanted to turn the tables, emerging from anonymity and having Victor’s eyes looking at no one but him.

Yuuri bathed in the thought there was something only he knew about Victor, the way his sincere smile made his eyes sparkle before his hands came up to playfully cover them. He caressed the image, packed it, and set it aside somewhere in his mind: he would need it later.

“You know something other people don’t,” he told himself, walking away from the billboard, his mind racing so fast it made him dizzy.

As expected the days passed in the blink of an eye. It was a cold early afternoon, due to a downpour the night before and Yuuri had barely slept. In addition, he worried he had eaten too much. A few hours before it had seemed a good plan, eating a breakfast richer than usual to have energy, but now he could only reprimand himself. He tried to focus on the now, mouthing the steps sequences he planned for the choreography. He was fourth in line to be examined, the third - and most dangerous opponent - dancing at that very moment. Waiting was torture.

Yuuri opened the door ever so slightly and peered inside, curiosity stronger than common sense. It was nearly his undoing. Despite being almost finished, Sofja's performance was breathtaking with the fluidity of her steps and the proficiency of her movements. Every gesture was perfectly calculated in a coldness that sent chills down Yuuri’s spine. From where he was standing he couldn't see Victor's expression, but he had no doubt about what Victor’s gestures conveyed; the feeling of being completely entranced by the ballerina’s dance. 

Yuuri stomach twisted. Cold sweat wetted his palms. A bitter taste filled the back of his mouth. A general uneasiness diffused in his now tight chest. If the sensations were familiar, however, the sudden surge of anger wasn't. It happened quickly, like a spasm through his body, directed toward Sofja. She was a perfect ballerina, but Yuuri couldn't stand her dancing with such familiarity with Victor. It was a ridiculous thought; others had been Victor’s partners on stage and would be again. Yuuri was only one among the many. Still, she had no right.

Yuuri brought a hand to his heart. Of one thing he was most certain: this may be his last and only chance to dance with Victor. Sofja or the others would have several others chances, not him. They hadn't run with Victor under the rain.

“Yuuri, it's your turn!”

Yuuri snapped back to reality, blinking a couple time to readjust his blurry vision. Victor was standing right before him, a soft, almost encouraging smile on his lips. It wasn't Victor the person Yuuri had to convince, they both were aware of this detail. The thought, however, was making Yuuri more nervous than he already was. Over Victor's shoulder, Yuuri could see the stage, the place where the next few minutes would determine months and years of yearning.

“Yes,” he acknowledged, passing next to Victor. He swung his arm a little and for a fraction of second brushed his knuckles against Victor's hand. Touch became a silent message. 

Yuuri had been thinking about the relationship between the Seducer and the Prince since the day the auditions were announced. The comparison with the link between Victor and him had been inevitable. For one thing was certain, if he had been the Seducer, he wouldn't have let the Prince escape. His would be reticence, not cruelty. Sofja had been perfect, so cold it burnt, and cruel, nothing Yuuri could hope to surpass if fighting with the same weapons. Thus he would have to rely on something completely different.

He decided to change the story.

What if the Seducer had fallen in love with the Prince but wanted to test his worth? They ran away but wished for the Prince to follow. They danced their net around him. Three were the dances the Seducer shared with the Prince. The auditions required the simplest and yet most difficult: the meeting. It was the moment when the Seducer lured the Prince into their domain. 

Victor was standing on the other side of the stage, his body perfectly still in his starting position. The memory of Victor’s sincere laugh echoed in Yuuri's mind. Yuuri fell in an _efface derriere_. He moved toward Victor in _pas de couru_ , halted a half-metre from him and bowed in a reverence. Come play with me, he said. 

Come, human, and if I like you, I may even spare your life because you are ever so beautiful. Come and maybe the story wanted by Fate will have a different ending. 

Everything else disappeared. The entire audition vanished in between the opening move and the final pose. Yuuri's heart thundered in his chest, not daring to move for fear it would ruin the enchantment. Only when he heard both Lilia's dismissal and Victor's touch on his shoulder, Yuuri relaxed. He stopped at the door, wondering why Victor hadn't followed him yet. He remembered soon after that yet another danseur had to audition. There was still another person Victor had to dance with, another Seducer. Yuuri mouthed his well-wishes as the new danseur walked past him toward the stage. 

Yuuri fell on his knees as soon as he walked outside the room, his body shaking with a sudden surge of new tension. It was fine, he told himself, fingers digging in his biceps and he tried to stand up on his feet, it was fine. He had danced well, no use in worrying. He pressed the palm of his hands against his ears to not hearing a single word coming from behind the closed door. He fixated his sight on the ceiling: a little more and he would know.

The last danseur ended his auditions in few minutes, and like Yuuri and the others exited with an indecipherable expression on his face. At Yuuri's right side, Sofja Bulgakova was staring at the wall with such fierceness he feared she would shoot a hole through it with her sheer willpower. Inside the room, the ballet masters were discussing. Outside nobody dared to look at each other, each praying to have impressed the right people in the right way.

No gaze was exchanged either when they were called back inside the room nor when Madame Baranovskaya announced the final decision. 

“Katsuki will have the role. Bulgakova is the first substitute. Zhakarin the second, in the unfortunate case a second substitute will be needed. Dismissed.”

It took a while for Yuuri's brain to process the information. If his ears weren't playing tricks on him, he had got the part. He would dance on the same stage as Victor, dance with Victor. Oh god, he would dance with Victor, rehearse with Victor, dance a pas de deux with Victor. The thought was almost unreal. Yuuri searched for Victor's head in the room, but he was nowhere to be found, probably asked to leave once the time to make the final decision had come to ensure a complete impartiality. Still, Yuuri could already feel the stare of disapproval on his back. Surprisingly not from Sofja Bulgakova.

“Congratulation, Katsuki, it was about time,” she complimented him “But next season I won't be defeated.”

“Of course,” Yuuri muttered his response. Oh god, he had obtained the second most important role for the new ballet season. Some people even said the Seducer was the most important role. 

Oh god, he had an urgent use for a calming tea.

_Dear Yura,_

_to your surprise and I guess everybody's, including mine, I will interpret the Seducer in the upcoming show. Congratulations on your role and don't make the face I imagine you are making: your time will come too._

_Yuuri K,_

_P.S The threat of you beating me up if I don't commit myself completely is still ringing in my ears_.

_Yuuri,_

_If I didn’t know Madame Baranovskaya, I would’ve said she’s gone crazy. But overall I’m glad you got the part and not that pompous Zhakarin. He is so full of himself that in comparison Victor is humble! Personally, I would’ve gone with Sofja, but you’ll do._

_Yura_

_P.S. Fear for your life if you are anything less than perfect!_

_Dear Victor,_

_I suppose you were either right that I could get the role or so full of hope to make a dream come true. Pardon the sappiness of my prose. At the moment I'm still processing what had happened and the fear of all of this being just a dream is strong. Yes, I know I've already written something similar in my previous letter, but what can I say? I'm a difficult person to convince._

_In any case, dancing with you will be an honour and a joy, I'm sure._

_Please, give my regards to Mila and once again pardon the shortness of my message._

_Sincerely,_

_Yuuri K._

_Dear Yuuri,_

_You were magnificent today. For a moment I forgot we were on a stage in a theatre room and believed it was a mysterious forest somewhere human eye never saw. Trust me, the way you move Yuuri is something magical and if I had to repeat it one thousand times for you to believe this, I would gladly do. Oh, I wish I could've been there to congratulate with you the moment you got the part. I wished I saw your expression, though I can imagine it._

_Now, I take this opportunity to dwell in more pleasant domains. My family has a permit to visit the Hermitage museum, which is particularly lovely in summer, and I was wondering if I could have the pleasure of your company tomorrow. I apologise for the short notice. A quick answer to the boy bringing this letter will suffice._

_Sincerely yours, Victor_

_P.S. I hope Miss Bulgakova hadn't terrorized you excessively_

_P.P.S. If you accept my proposal, let's meet in front of the Winter Palace at 3_

_Dear Victor,_

_Visiting the Hermitage with you will be my pleasure._

_Yuuri_

The Hermitage wasn't a place everyone could visit. A special permit was needed and Victor had easily obtained it. For the occasion, Yuuri had invested some of his savings in a new suit, bought that very morning. Standing before the mirror he slicked back his hair, convincing himself it was only to make a good impression with the museum staff, as being allowed inside was an honour and an opportunity. He told himself nothing of what he did was to impress Victor on a date, because there wouldn’t have been any date. 

Yuuri repeated this all the way to the omnibus stop and till the Hermitage.

Victor was waiting for him in the square before the Winter Palace, right under the Alexander column.

He was wearing a jacket of Italian cut, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Yuuri’s heart made a double flip. He knew it was a silly reaction, that he was getting too ahead of himself, that there was a difference between enjoying time with someone and being in love. But Yuuri couldn't ignore the light happiness bubbling under the layer of his constant fear and doubt. He remembered that for the next three months he would spend several days in Victor's company and the thought terrorized him a little.

“No Makkachin?” he asked instead, noticing immediately the absence of Victor's faithful canine companion at his side.

“They don't accept animals,” Victor explained, making a face indicating how little he liked the rules, “and he would make a fuss by chasing the cats the museums keeps,” he continued, adding another comment about how the museum staff must be mad to have cats around.

They crossed the entrance, with its marbles column and white-and-black diamond-patterned floor, climbed the stairs covered in red velvet-like fabric and began the visit. In Yuuri's eyes, it was huge. Stuccoed golden decoration traced the side of the marble stairs. Statues with fatigue painted on their faces curved under the windows weight they had to sustain for eternity. Lean columns with the bases bathed in gold rose up to the ceiling. Giants glass windows supplied the majority of light, in that June afternoon.

“They must really like gold,” was Yuuri’s comment as the first pictures began to appear, religious images painted on wood. “Oh, I remember this!”

He pointed at a crucifix protected by a glass shrine. “Oleg Vladimirovič had a smaller version, hung above the headboard.”

Victor's brow furrowed. Of course, Oleg Vladimirovič had also been Victor’s ballet teacher. 

“Yes, I remember! He liked the painting so much had commissioned a little of copy to a monastery. I wish he had been luckier.”

They acknowledged their mutual ballet master’s misfortune and loss in silence. It didn't last long, though. Instead, Victor's grabbed Yuuri by the wrist and almost ran across two rooms. They stopped before a tapestry, which covered in height almost the entire wall it was hung on. It portrayed a woman with legs wrapped in red, her breast naked. All around her was a frenzy of dragons.

“My favourite piece in the whole museum,” Victor commented, his hands behind his back, gaze travelling over the tapestry. 

“As expected by the son of a fabric merchant.” 

Given the museum dimensions, they had agreed to do a superficial visit and cover all the floors in one day, leaving a deeper, more thoughtful visit for times to come. After all, any excuse was good for yet another meeting outside the professionalism of rehearsing. 

“This way,” Victor’s light touch right between Yuuri's shoulder blades distracted him from the sapphire blue, white decorated ceiling in floral and leaf motifs. They had moved to an empty room, its walls lined on both side with arched windows, spaced by oval portraits. From out the clean glass, the Neva could be seen. Victor leaned forward enough to almost brush his lips against Yuuri's ear. Yuuri stiffened.

“Beautiful place for a dance,” Victor whispered, still pushing slightly on Yuuri's back. Yuuri couldn't deny Victor was right, feeling how his limbs tickled at the thought of launching himself in a jeté right in the middle of the room, bathed in light.

Victor's hand had left his back - Yuuri didn't feel relieved as his mind had made him believe - and slung against his side, fingers only tapping on Yuuri's biceps if he deemed a picture particularly worthy of attention.

The following rooms were more interesting in their own right than for the pieces hosted. Yuuri was, like every other lucky visitor, very aware the museum was nothing but the Imperial family private collections, graciously made available to the public. The question came to his mouth by itself, some salons and shimmering ceilings and magnificently painted walls later. “Have you ever met the Royals in person?”

Victor made a thoughtful sound. “Yes, a few times. The Tsarina congratulated during the opening for the Winter season. I remember how nervous I was the time the Tsar visited the theatre, right before me and the other danseurs left for Tokyo.”

Yuuri’s eyes beamed with surprise. The picture of a younger, nervous Victor wasn't something he could easily imagine. He pondered to inquire about Victor's experience in the Japanese capital, but eventually decided against it.

“And the time I danced in the theatre this Palace hosts,” added Victor, still linked to the previous conversation. Yuuri simply raised a hand, bending the arm at the elbow, and caressed Victor's bicep with his knuckles, the gesture shorter than a breath. “Must have been stressful.”

“One gets used to it.”

If Yuuri wanted to feel bad about the subject, Victor hadn't any intention of letting him. Back to his usual cheerful tone, he declared they still have more than half the museum to cover. They shouldn't have run through the aisles, but that particular one was empty, with no one in sight, and the call was simply too alluring. For a moment, they could be silly, they could chase each other like their roles on stage would soon do, pretending the Palace was theirs. Their steps echoed in the ambience.

“Ever wish you were a Prince?” Yuuri wondered in between huffs, hands on his thighs. Victor laughed his affirmative answer with his head tilted back against the wall. “Yes. Who hasn't?”

“What would you do?”

“I'd be a rightful ruler until another Prince captured me in his charms, and then I would only care about him,” Victor joked, tone playful, lifting Yuuri's chin with his thumb and forefinger. Victor's thumb brushed against Yuuri's lower lip, causing his heart to flip all his way up to his throat. Victor didn't leave him the time to reflect and his hand was soon back pushing between his shoulder blades. Yuuri resigned to move to the following room. His heart didn't leave his throat. He threw an apologetic glance at a museum guard standing by the door, face twisted in the effort to suppress a smile. 

Few rooms later found Victor and Yuuri standing before the portrait of a woman, by some French artist. The picture lacked artistry in Yuuri’s opinion and the subject was not a goddess, but somehow the painting had captured Victor's attention and Yuuri was glad to comply. Those were the moments he could dare to peer at Victor's face without fear of being caught back, losing himself in the focus of those blue eyes. Victor seemed almost vulnerable. Yuuri acted on instinct. He grabbed Victor's hand and squeezed, eyes still fixed on the painting. 

“There's a nice courtyard where to laze, later,” Victor proposed.

“Sounds good.” 

*** 

“The other day Yuuri took my hand.” 

Chris raised his head from the knee against which it had been pressed moments before. He curled his toes, right leg outstretched on the ballet barre, before shifting to a more comfortable position, both feet on the ground.

“That's fortunate,” he commented, elbow posed on the ballet barre, back at the mirror, facing Victor, who was in front split and splayed on the floor like a sea star. “Care to tell me how it went?”

Victor straightened his back and brought an arm above his head, curving it to the left. He inclined his whole upper body to go with it, stretching until he felt pain blossoming in his muscles. He told Chris about how it had happened, the simplicity and yet the scale of it, how Yuuri had swung his arm and before Victor was aware of it, grabbed his hand and squeezed his fingers. It hadn't lasted more than the time for a heartbeat before Yuuri shied away again, claiming an unnatural interest in a particular shade of green of the wall. Still, Yuuri had taken his hand, both before a dull portrait of a noblewoman, standing side-to-side to admire the picture. Yuuri had taken Victor’s hand in his, which was fresh and clean, squeezing his fingers like a message of presence and Victor's heart had fluttered in his chest.

Victor rolled on his back, lifting both legs in the air, before lowering them toward his chest. “What can I do?” he lamented, tilting his head enough to throw Chris a pitiful glance. Chris walked up to him, stopping when his feet points brushed against Victor's ears. He looked at Victor's face set between his calves from down below.

“For a start, you could stop stretching for a bit? I mean I cannot take you seriously when you are like this,” Chris proposed. When Victor had complied with a huff, he resumed: “I think it’s a good sign. I mean, from my experience people don't get tactile if they aren't interested in you.”

“Maybe he sees me only as a friend,” Victor countered, lower lip pouting, head put on his knees. Chris rolled his eyes. 

“Vitka, tell me the times you've seen Yuuri been tactile with someone. Anyone!”

Victor thought about the subject. He thought thoroughly about it, forcing his memory to go back to the times spent with Yuuri, but nowhere could he remember Yuuri touching anyone. Not anyone. He groaned, falling again on the floor.

“Chris, you have to help me!” he pleaded.

“And what have I done up till now?” Chris replied, offence in his voice. He shot Victor a glance to mean the times he had helped him were so many both fingers and toes weren’t enough to count them all. Victor pouted a bit more. Chris sighed.

“Well, you are going to spend a great amount of time together for the rehearsing or am I mistaken?” - Victor nodded to acknowledge the fact – “Then it's easy. Plenty of occasions to continue your courting and seduce him,” Chris concluded, brushing his palms against each other as to indicate the subject was set. Victor, however, was far from convinced. He surged to his feet and went to the ballet barre, because staying still wasn't something he could do in the state he was.

“I know there'll be a lot of touching and I'm not complaining. God knows how I would like to be in Yuuri's arms like at the party, but now every time I'm afraid he would run away, “ he confessed. “How do I make it clear it isn't only for the play? More important, how can I avoid scaring him?”

Victor hung his head in defeat.

On stage, he could carve an illusion of emotion so perfect the audience thought it was real, but the moment he divested his danseur's clothes feelings became a huge mystery and mess. He had learnt to take attention, compliments, and the occasional touches without actually engaging in them, ending with way fewer relationships that his fame as the most desirable bachelor in St. Petersburg and probably half-Europe let suppose. The one-night stands were nowhere as many as the rumours presupposed. Nor could one-night stands be compared with true feelings.

All in all, Victor had lived a chaste life in Paris. Still, the city had grabbed him by the collar of his shirt the moment he stepped down the train, laying before him a whole flaming-set of novelties and possibilities, first among all the Opera. 

Victor had been already known as the promise of ballet in Russia, but in Paris he was nothing more than a provincial boy with unrefined habits and lessons to undergo to carve the best out of his potential. After the first year, his old, long-haired self would’ve barely recognized his new persona. Hair cut short, any possible trace of shyness gone and residual bad habits kicked out of him with frigid sternness. His exotic origins gave him the advantage of the novelty. Soon the first staging roles had arrived.

Months had turned into years.

Victor loved St Petersburg. It was the mother he never had had and the city loved him back. It wasn't something linked to his fame, as the townsfolk had loved him since he was a little kid accompanying his father on his business trips from house to house and who twirled as soon as he heard music playing.

However, despite his love for his hometown, a portion of Victor’s heart had stayed in France. Paris had swarmed him in a farandole of colourful novelties, shining with life and literally sparkling with electricity. Everything was bigger, faster, and more fashionable. Horse-lead carriages, funny-looking bicycles, and the first automobiles crossed the streets, while people filled the cafés and the theatres. Penniless artists filled the town attic and the pubs, sat before the Green Fairy. Sometimes Victor and Chris indulged too in a glass of such bitter alcohol, watching the other customers through the thick curtain of smoke of the Chat Noir. Chris had also some acquaintances in Paris, enough to grant both of them the occasional invitation to one of the parties always organized by a family or the other. That was before Victor's fame grew to be solid enough to receive an invitation for his own worth. Victor should've come back already in 1900, two years earlier than what he had, but with Paris popping with excitement for the Universal Expo, he hadn't resisted the temptation to stay for yet another year. 

When it had come home, it had been like leaving an eccentric aunt. After Paris, he thought St. Petersburg would be boring, not expecting to find an enchanting, complicate man who now surprised and confused him at every step.

***

Yuuri dipped his pen nib in the inkstand, taking a moment for readjusting from the left-right, horizontal style of western letters, to the right-left, vertical one of Japanese correspondence.

_Dear sister_

_I haven’t received a new letter from you yet, but in fear it won't arrive for months, I'm sending you this hoping it will reach Hasetsu by the time your letter will be already here._

_International mail, truly, is complicated. With the new Transiberian railway I hoped for a faster postal service, but I suppose either your letter or mine is still stuck somewhere between St. Petersburg and Tokyo._

_I bring two pieces of good news, though I cannot deny they cause me a shiver of fear. In Autumn Mariinsky theatre will feature a new ballet, original and never shown before, and in this I'll have an important role. The second is most important. Please, go to the temple for me and pray so that I have luck and strength. I will dance on the same stage as Victor. I will dance three times with Victor._

_My hands tremble and my mouth dries at the only thought. I cannot understand these feelings. Naming them brings me discomfort._

_I am writing very slowly now, each word carefully considered, because I do not dare to put on paper what my soul feels. But here I am, writing, and if my hand is steady enough, I shall confess to you I believe that - look how hard it is to write a single word - Victor is courting me._

_That is it. I've written the sentence. My heart hopes for it be true. My mind tells me it is not possible. As for me, every step and gesture brings me great doubts. However, Victor's company is for me a source of joy, thus I will gladly accept for the occasions that will come._

_Please bring my greetings to mom and dad and all the others._

_Your brother_

_P.S. Care to send me a charm from the temple? Something for protection and good luck._

_P.P.S Maybe two charms would be better_

 

The training schedule was thus established: three times a week Victor and Yuuri rehearsed together, both morning and afternoon, while the other days were dedicated to studying the choreography individually. At first, a teacher would have to be present during the pas de deux rehearsals to correct and give directions, but when it was clear his presence limited Yuuri's expression, Victor had used his silver-tongue to convince the ballet master they could do alone.

“Fine,” the man had agreed “But in two weeks I want to check on your progress. If I don't see any, you'll be back under my guidance. Is that understood?”

Yuuri inhaled, finishing the last part of his stretching routine. Victor had ended his and was waiting by the ballet barre. They had agreed to work from the main dance the Seducer and the Prince shared on stage, when they actually danced together in a surge of passion or cruel illusion, however the interpretations. It was the moment the Seducer let the Prince touch them, welcomed him into their embrace, let the Prince lead them and took control of the dance in return.

Unfortunately, Yuuri's normal-self struggled from the beginning to get into the right mindset. Despite the fact that both his determination and Victor's words of reassurance had improved the situation a little, Yuuri was still fighting a battle with himself not to freeze anytime Victor touched him.

The pas de deux was full of seductive touches, from both parts.

“You ready?” Victor asked, feet and arms already in position. Yuuri nodded.

The choreography would begin with Yuuri approaching Victor on the diagonal, doing piqués. He counted four turns, the feminine steps chosen to confuse the audience. Victor jumped in sissonne and knelt before Yuuri in welcoming. In response Yuuri made a reverence, turning his palm up in invitation to be taken, before dancing a couple of fouttés backwards.

Yuuri stopped in arabesque, the right leg as support, the left outstretched behind him. Yuuri’s breath hitched in his throat as Victor's finger caressed his thigh muscles in a soft but solid grip. Yuuri was supposed to take that as a signal to pirouette on the demi-pointe. He flinched instead. He always flinched, although it was only the beginning of the choreography. Victor's hand on his thigh, almost at the crotch, and his warm breath was against his nape was enough to send shivers throughout all Yuuri's body. In a normal pas de deux Victor's hands wouldn't move under the hip-line, but this one wasn't a normal pas de deux, though Yuuri was still debating how much Victor was following the choreography.

”It's useless,” he grunted, sliding on the floor in defeat, the heels of his hands pressed against his eyelid. It didn't take much before Victor crouched before him. His fingers traced the profile of Yuuri's knuckles with a feather-light touch.

“What's the problem?” He asked gently.

Yuuri uncovered his eyes, his whole body sagging in discomfort. In no universe, he would have enough confidence to confess how Victor's touches made him feel, how they generated a storm of desire he couldn't comprehend. It was flesh against flesh, the clothes only a thin barrier.

“It's nothing. I'm a bit tired,” he lied, surging on his feet. He elongated his left leg in a développé. “Can we start from the middle?” He asked, trying not to look too much at Victor, for how little possible it was. Victor should be the centre of his attention, not something to ignore. Maybe starting with the solo he had during the pas de deux would help him focus enough to act professionally.

Oh, how he wished it was something more, how the touches were meant for him and not the mask he would wear on stage. Yuuri let his nails bite into flesh to keep at bay such thoughts, while his arms hooked around Victor's neck, their bodies pressed together. Warmth coiled in Yuuri's guts, a low-burning fire menacing to engulf his whole being, from his hips to his head. He should have leaned his body backwards, arms now raised above his head, in what ended the pas de deux.

He jumped in place instead, tripped over himself and fell on the floor, Victor on top of him.

Silence filled the room, so thick Yuuri could almost hear his blood rushing through his veins. He diverted his gaze, cheeks flustered. Victor was so close. 

“Sorry,” he choked out, trying to slip from under Victor. Luckily the other seemed to notice his discomfort and freed him.

“Shall we go through the last pas de deux?” Victor questioned, breaking the heavy silence. The third and last pas de deux was the one when the Seducer abandoned the Prince; or ran away, in the story Yuuri had created inside his head. Like with the encounter, he had wanted to insert some little elements of Japanese dance into the choreography. After having mentioned it with Victor, they had decided to incorporate the gestures in a mime. It was something Yuuri could comprehend. He brought an arm crossed over his chest, the other outstretched with a vertical palm. 

On the other side, Victor had already both his hands over his heart, as if he was praying. 

“Please don't go,” he said.

“I have to,” was Yuuri's response. 

***

_Dear Chris,_

_I followed your advice regarding Yuuri and I am forced to tell you we may have underestimated his shyness. When we are alone outside the theatre he always surprises me with a completely unexpected touch, but all of that vanishes the moment we start rehearsing. At the beginning, I thought he was embarrassed by the presence of someone else, but now that we are alone things do not seem to have improved. It's already been two weeks! Luckily the progress made was enough to convince the ballet master to let us continue working alone._

_Chris, I have to reprimand you, because you have truly chosen the worst moment for visiting Moscow. Let it be said I'm counting the days until your return. Any chance I can move you to pity and convince you to advance the date? I know it's only another ten days, but still._

_I hope you're enjoying Moscow._

_Your desperate friend,_

_Vitya_

_Dear Vitya,_

_The lack of details in your letter gives me little space to advise you. Care to be more specific? Did Yuuri freeze? Did he panic and run away? From what you tell me about your “dates” he seemed to have an interest in you, but these mixed signals made me think he isn't sure of his feelings in the first place. Probably he doesn’t dare to go further a professional relationship. Your head may be high in the clouds for him, but such_ a _picture might be so absurd for him he rejects it._

_I am just being candid._

_Back to the origin of the whole discourse, dancing together is the perfect floor for courting him, but if he starts to panic I trust your judgement to refrain from anything inappropriate. You two still meet at the tea-shop, right? That is still a plan._

_Chris_

_P.S. Anticipate my return in two days. Never tell me again I'm not a good friend._

***

The rehearsing continued every week, three times a week. It would become five closer to the performance. Yuuri had already almost perfected the overall picture of his first dance with Victor, who had helped him to translate into a fixed choreography what Yuuri couldn't remember from his audition. Furthermore, the mime was set on a solid basis. Sometimes the pain and disbelief on Victor's face were so real Yuuri had to repress the instinct to stop everything to cradle Victor in his arms, saying he would never let him go. He had to remind himself it was only a show and soon Victor would walk away from him. Yuuri's brain insisted on showing him pictures of when he and Victor had run under the rain or shared a piece of cake before two fuming cups of tea. Yuuri, however, forced them aside. Those were good moments, they made his heart flutter and his lips smile at night, but they were nothing more. In his letter home, he had said Victor was courting him. The more Yuuri thought about it, the more it sounded like a delusion.

He prayed to the Sweet Benzaiten [1] and the Almighty Amaterasu.

It was the second pas de deux that continued to give him problems. Yuuri had to admit he had made some progress, getting used day by day to Victor's touch. The soft, tantalizing presence of his partner's fingertips was impossible for Yuuri's to ignore, but at least he could run through the whole choreography without freezing every two steps.

His heart still thundered in his belly. His guts still burned with flaming desire when Victor held him in the grip of a desperate hug. Yuuri clenched his muscles and focused on his body, the control he had on it from the crown of his head to the tip of his toes. Victor's hand was warm on his cheek when he caressed it. His grip was strong when he picked him from the ground; his voice soft when he whispered directions in Yuuri's ear.

Yuuri's legs felt weak and his knees buckled, but he used every ounce of his control to stay strong. 

“Yuuri!” Victor called him at the end of the Wednesday rehearsal. The ballet room was stuffy, and a cloak of warmth and humidity had fallen on St Petersburg. Every inch of Yuuri's exposed skin was beaded with sweat. 

“I would like to invite you to dinner.”

“Sorry?” Yuuri finished changing his wet training shirt for a dry one. He toed off his ballet slippers. The hypothesis Victor was courting him came back full force, clear as the full moon in the pitch black winter night. He regretted having written those few words to Mari. If he hadn't, the scenario wouldn't be so real. Victor wanted to invite him to dinner, face-to-face as if it was a date.

”Where?” he forced himself to ask. He wouldn't accept the invitation, it was too soon, too straightforward, too dangerous. He couldn't accept because Victor was St. Petersburg darling and the city would slaughter Yuuri if he dared to keep its jewel just for him.

“Palkin” Victor answered.

Palkin was the oldest restaurant in St. Petersburg. It was fancy. It was exclusive. It was expensive. It made Yuuri feel inadequate when passing by, only standing outside and peering through the windows. It was the kind of restaurant where the Mariinsky faithful audience went after an evening show, while he heated his cabbage soup on the stove.

“Thanks for the invitation. I truly appreciate it. However, I don't think it would be a good idea.”

Victor knitted his eyebrows. “Why?”

Yuuri fidgeted, eyes on the floor, his training bag now swung over his shoulder. “I would order a bland soup because I'm on diet and it would be a waste,” he explained, forcing his voice to be steady on his excuse. He was having already a hard time trying to convince himself.

“It wouldn't be a waste, I assure-”

“I'm sorry, I have to decline. Thank you anyway. See you on Friday,” Yuuri repeated, passing by Victor to exit the ballet room. It was late evening, but the sky was still clear and luminous. The streets were filled with people. Yuuri held his bag to his chest and disappeared into the crowd. He wanted to hide.

On the day of his return to St. Petersburg, Christophe Giacometti found a despondent, extremely upset Victor waiting for him at Moscow station.

“How much trouble did you cause in my absence?” He wondered out loud, throwing a suitcase into Victor's arms. Victor promptly passed it to the valet waiting few steps behind. He recapped the latest events during their trip to Chris apartment.

Chris pinched the bridge of his nose. He let out a sigh of resignation. “I should have given you a step by step guide. Did you really invite Yuuri to one of the fanciest and most expensive dinner places in all St. Petersburg?”

Victor smiled sheepishly. “I thought it would be courteous,” he justified himself. Chris pinched his nose harder. 

“Vitka, you would only embarrass him.”

“But it would be my treat!”

“Proud people don't want to be treated. I guessed you knew that.”

If Victor knew, love must have made him forgot it. “What can I do?” he pleaded, glancing outside the carriage like a maiden waiting for her love to come home from war. Chris made a thoughtful sound, the noise of wheels against the pavement in the background. 

“You know, he had a point in saying that going to a restaurant now wouldn't be a good idea for your diet. It would be a pity to order a salad and Russian cooking isn't the epitome of lightness.”

“Thus?”

“Wait for a better moment and pick something less demanding.”

***

Monday again. Yuuri woke up at dawn, as soon as the first sunrays filtered through his window. In his sleep, he had tossed his bed sheets on the floor in a twisted pile. His ruffled hair was damp. He covered his eyes and sighed. With both the hot night and the uneasiness set down in his stomach since when he had refused Victor's invitation, his sleep had been filled with absurd dreams. He sighed again, rolling on his stomach, face pressed against the mattress. His entire body was sore. His blistered feet had left traces of blood on the sheets, dark red stripes that had by now dried up. 

Mornings were always a torture, no matter the season.

Before the clock had struck seven, Yuuri had done his morning stretching routine, washed up, and put on an image of decency.

He would go through his choreography by himself in the morning and again with Victor in the afternoon. He hadn't seen Victor since Friday's morning because a series of unexpected tasks had kept him from their usual tea meeting. That day at the tea-room Yuuri had barely touched his cup, drawing distracted circles on the porcelain border. At some point, Mila had sat with him for a while, but her presence had helped little in lifting Yuuri's mood. He shouldn't have refused Victor's invitation. Victor had seemed so disappointed afterwards; maybe the fact would affect their relationship and their dance.

Yuuri forced his brain to go through the choreography steps from the beginning to avoid thinking about anything else. He was a professional, Victor was a professional, they would prepare splendid choreography regardless of some personal misunderstandings.

“I know, it's a pity.”

Yuuri stopped on the stairs. The morning had passed in a blink, time compressed in the realm Yuuri always entered when he was focused. He had spent the past hours dancing as if the ballet room didn't exist, immersed in the story he had to tell, imagining Victor in the empty spaces where he should have been.

The voice was feminine, coming from around the corner. Yuuri recognized it as belonging to one of the ballerinas who had auditioned. 

”I mean, you should have gotten the part. You are a girl! The Prince should fall in love with a beautiful woman. And you're so prettier than Sofja!” someone answered.

“And way prettier than that boy. I can never remember his name. He's so boring!” came a third voice, younger and higher. Yuuri stiffened. He wasn't the person who normally eavesdropped, but he would have to pass across the same corridor to reach the ballet room where he practised with Victor. 

“Yes, he is nothing special. I'm sure he got the part only because Nikiforov has a crush on him. I still don't understand the reason.”

“They say he likes men the most,” the first voice wondered.

”Even so, with all the handsome men we have around, I still can't understand why Nikiforov is so interested in him.”

If the conversation continued, Yuuri didn't stop there to listen further, his presence barely acknowledged. His little popularity inside the Company and within the theatre was not a novelty and to survive he had had to get used to it. It still hurt, surely, and there were days when homesickness held Yuuri hostage so much even something small was enough for him to burst into tears. However, the years away from home had taught him how to deal with nostalgia **.**

There were already voices about how he got the part because of a recommendation, although Yuuri hadn't yet been a direct witness of any of those. The day before a message full of insult had been put in his mailbox. Yuuri burnt it, but felt terrible nonetheless, the ink words putting seeds of doubts in his brain.

His stomach twisted in indignation. He had never done anything to win Victor's assumed interested, as the girl had called it, nor he had asked for it. Furthermore, Victor had had little to do with the final decision, taken by Madame Baranovskaya and the other ballet masters.

Yuuri didn't hope people blinded by envy would use logic. Nor did he wish to find a justification. If the people were so eager to speak poorly of him, if they wished to hate him, he would give them a reason. Again the images of the moments shared with Victor flashed through Yuuri's mind; their steps echoing through the Hermitage aisles, Victor's smile in the rain, and Victor feeding him bites of _medovik_ in a tearoom. For once Yuuri didn't oblige himself to put them aside. Those moments were real and, if Yuuri dared, proof of those girls' fear. He would prove he was worth the part and seduce the audience. He would seduce Victor so that the whole city could see and be unable to divert its gaze.

Yuuri strutted inside the ballet room with the aura of confidence of a man going on a mission

“I want to change the choreography of the second pas de deux,” he declared before Victor had the time to say anything.

“What do you have in mind?”

“Can I show you?” Yuuri replied, walking in the centre of the ballet room and already taking position. His muscles were tense, sore, but ready. Victor did the same, showing with actions he was giving Yuuri the free floor. Yuuri took a deep breath, the voices from earlier still ringing in his ears. Yet, instead of paralyzing him in fear, they were giving him strength.

“Follow me,” he mouthed, before beginning his dance.

This time he didn't subside to Victor's touch, didn't wait for his fingers or abandon to his caresses. Instead, he let the Seducer he had to interpret lavish over him, taking control of every fibre of his body. Every movement was far from perfect, but it was embedded with energy, power flowing through his veins and being released at every step. Yuuri soon invaded Victor's personal space, closing the distance between them. He grabbed Victor's hand and placed it on his hip, leaning back in a _cambré_ before twisting from the tentative embrace. He circled around Victor like a net becoming tighter with every move. _Développé. Battement. Fouettes. Arabesque_. It was languid as honey and cruel as a storm, a dangerous vortex nobody could escape.

Victor was a trained danseur and adjusted without much difficulty to every change Yuuri applied to the choreography. His naked arms glistened with sweat. Yuuri's could feel his muscles tensing when their bodies touched, energy filling the room.

Yuuri was immersed in his body and yet detached from it. Or, for once, Yuuri had allowed his mind to back up a little and allow his body and soul to take years of training and let his desires find an expression through dance. In a few months, he would show this to the whole city. The thought made his skin tingle with anticipation, and there it would be clear he was worth any bit of the role.

He was worth Victor's attention.

Normally, Yuuri would have leaned back for his final pose. This time, however, he leaned forward, forcing Victor to adjust. Yuuri's muscles were on fire. His heartbeat was loud in his ears. Still, he didn't feel any desire to run. He inclined his head until his lips were a breath from Victor's. It would take only to tip his head a little more for their mouths to meet. Yuuri wondered how it would be to kiss Victor. How his lips would feel on his own. First only a brush, before indulging in something more, the feeling of Victor's tongue against his, his fingers grabbing Victor's hair.

Oh, how Yuuri would like to kiss him.

He didn't. Surely, he didn't.

“So what do you think?” he asked instead, short of breath from something completely different than the dance. Victor didn’t seem to be in better condition, face and throat flustered and his fringe messily plastered on his sweaty forehead. 

“I think it's great,” Victor exhaled.

_Dear Chris,_

_That Our Gracious Lord give me strength. I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears. My head is dizzy. My hands tremble._

_Today Yuuri almost kissed me. It would've taken so little, some bit more of courage. I waited, but he didn't close the gap between our mouths. How would it be to kiss that sweet lips of his? Chris, I could have used some boldness, held him in my embrace, kiss the soul out of him. But in fear he would again run away, I refrained from all of that._

_You should have seen him today. He was a totally different person!_

_He confuses and surprises me every time we meet._

_Your turmoiled friend,_

_Vitya_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Japanese Goddess of love, beauty, eloquence and music, as well as a sea Goddess
> 
> Third chapter and blessed be [ Artsdefine05](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artdefines06/pseuds/Artdefines06) and [ Curlavski](http://curlavski.tumblr.com)
> 
> I’m at loss of word. It’s been so long since I’ve written this chapter and I’m so thrilled for the things that are yet to come that I can’t do much more than to thank you for reading.
> 
> I loved writing the Hermitage part (you can even take a virtual tour on the hermitage official website, how cool is that?) and if you squint you can see a tiny reference to a very, very famous fic in this fandom.
> 
> And, god, there was a lot of UST in the ballet room, wasn’t it?
> 
> Finally, you see I’m keeping changing the chapter total count because, well, new chapter are popping out like mushrooms. This may even become longer than expected. 
> 
> I should publish the next chapter in two weeks, but being the previewed update date the same of my graduation, I may shift of a week. Please, send good vibes my way!
> 
> Stay tuned next!


	4. Première

**Première**

 

Yuuri's body was tensed in an effort of holding still. Victor's fingers were anchored under Yuuri's thigh, keeping him _en balance_ during the lift. Yuuri's back was arched in a gracious curve, the perfect embodiment of strength and elegance. 

Victor lowered him and Yuuri pirouetted on demi-pointe, stopping in a croisé. Victor was always ready to sustain him, falling prey to his charm. Feather-like touches alternated with solid grips, teasing and possessive. Every motion was calibrated, every gesture dripping with a subtle eroticism, sensuality at its finest. 

 

“Not bad,” Ballet Master Fetsman said, which was the best compliment one could expect from him. Yuuri swept the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, bowing a little in thanks. After more than an hour of dancing, his body tingled with energy. At his side, Victor was stretching his arms above his head, his expression relaxed where it had shown pure agony just a moment before. 

A whole month had passed since Yuuri's choice to change the choreography, the first week of July already crossed out on the calendar. Under Yakov’s suggestion, he and Victor had started to rehearse together five times a week, three times the whole day, two only in the morning.

Yuuri was both glad and made uncomfortable by the novelty. It allowed him to see Victor more often than he would have otherwise, with their strict schedule limiting the time they could enjoy together outside the theatre. Nonetheless, it gave nourishment to a fire popping in Yuuri's belly, about to burst for every inch of Victor's body he touched. If it wasn’t fire, it was a fluttery, warm sensation engulfing his heart by Victor's presence It was the way his eyes squinted when he smiled or his chuckles when he sometimes still covered his face to ease Yuuri's embarrassment.

 

Yuuri lay in bed at night wishing his time with Victor and their dancing together could last more than only a ballet season.

“You have improved considerably since last time. I have to admit I can't deny your chemistry. Katsuki, the steps sequence of your solo was perfect, but your jeté has to be higher and more precise. Focus on that,” Yakov interjected Yuuri’s thoughts.

“Yes, sir.”

“And you, Vitya, normally I would reprimand you for not being able to convey a truthful emotion, but not this time. Just stick to the choreography.”

“Of course.”

 

When the Ballet Master had left the room, recommending to not stop rehearsing only because, for some kind of fortune, they have been of his liking, Victor pivoted on his heels and asked, ”So, what are you going to do?”

”I think I will rehearse my solo a little more. Ballet Master Feltsman is right, plus I am always afraid I'll forget the steps mid-performance. And I have to start revising my part in Sleeping Beauty.”

 

“Right, I guess I should work on that as well,” Victor joked, crouching to adjust one of his ballet slippers. “Or the Prima will drown me in the Neva.”

Yuuri agreed, a not-committed sound coming from the back of his throat. In normal circumstances, the Seducer part would've been assigned without a second thought to Mariinsky's Prima. 

Luckily, once she read the plot for _Soblazneniye printsa_ , she had declared she didn't feel like dancing any of those roles, preferring to focus on refining her interpretation of Aurora, which was also safer and more famous. Having been away the previous season to dance at Bolshoi, she wanted her return to be on solid basis. 

Still, Yuuri sometimes couldn't suppress the feeling she must be hating him for stealing a spotlight that would normally be hers. He muttered his concerns to Victor, who waved them away.

”Marja doesn't hate you. Stop worrying, you are perfect for this role. If she wanted it, she should have least done the auditions, just like everyone else, including me. But she didn't. So, stop worrying!”

“I'll try.”

If only it would have been as easy as making the promise. Victor lifted Yuuri's chin with thumb and index finger united. He was close, too close. As long as he was dancing the pas de deux, Yuuri didn't mind the proximity, even searching for it, but doubts came back full force when the music ended. Victor stopped being the helpless Prince under the Seducer charm and transformed back into Mariinsky's _premier danseur_ , St. Petersburg's darling, most desired bachelor in town and Yuuri's idol on earth. Yuuri’s breath hitched in his throat, waiting for Victor to do or say something. 

 

To their surprise, the door swung open. Sofja, fierce and beautiful as always, cut to the chase. “Yuuri, can I ask you a favour?”

“Of course,” Yuuri replied, with an uncertain voice, brow furrowed. Sofja Bulgakova asking for a favour wasn't something that happened on a routine-basis. He braced himself for the request.

“I need a little help with the choreography. Ballet Master Feltsman told me you two changed it a little bit and in case I want to be ready,” Sofja explained, acknowledging Victor's presence with a nod of her head. He waved his hello.

 

“Of course. Yes, I can help you,” Yuuri blabbered after a bit of indecision. Grabbing his bag, he gestured Sofja to go. He would follow her. Sometimes, especially in the last weeks, he forgot there was the possibility, distant but still real, something would happen before the première or after and prevent him from dancing on stage. Being Yuuri’s substitute, Sofja was required to know the choreography and up to then had trained under Madame Baranovskaya, with the occasional participation from Victor. 

The news they had changed the choreography must have come to her ears. An illogical animosity toward her surged in Yuuri's stomach, an inner dislike for a woman who was perfect in everything she did and yet humble enough to admit her limits. If it hadn't been ridiculous, Yuuri would've equated the feeling toward her to jealousy, the image of her dancing with Victor at his place unbearable.

Yuuri knew it was silly, as he worked to subside the sensation. Unforeseen accidents happened and it was better to be prepared. One day, others would dance his role if the new ballet was successful enough to enter the repertoire.

Notwithstanding, deep inside he hoped that, when it happened, it would be with another danseur playing the Prince. He glanced back one more time to Victor, who smiled goodbye. The jealousy in Yuuri's stomach melted and softened.

 

Once alone again, Victor let his smile falter and disappointment appear under the mask of detachment he put on every morning for the world. Being a professional, he was aware he shouldn't have blamed Sofja for her interruption, but inside he did it all the same. If it hadn't been for her, he would have asked Yuuri for another dance, melting in the way they harmonize so perfectly, Yuuri's face squinted in concentration and his eyes sparkling with passion. He could have taken a risk and robbed him of a kiss, like Chris' suggested in exasperation during an afternoon when Victor had pined for hours.

In the last month Yuuri's confidence had skyrocketed, bringing Victor to fall for him harder every time, personal life and fiction mingling together to the point his head buzzed with confusion as Yuuri dismissed the dangerous Seducer clothes to go back to his shy, usual self. Yet, sometimes Yuuri surprised him, offering tender gestures that Victor conserved with care in his memory, a ray of hope in moments of discomfort.

 

Sometimes Victor saw glimpses of the Yuuri from the party in the person before him. In the past months, he had come to learn what Yuuri’s real self was, his interest only growing before a man who was so reserved yet capable of surprising spurs of affection. 

A part of Victor, however, still wished he could meet again the Yuuri who had boldly held him by the waist in a dizzying waltz during the party for when he had returned home. Yuuri's hand had been warm in his, Yuuri's grip on his side sure. Yuuri had smiled under the mask, a wide grin, which made Victor's heart flutter. Dark, seductive eyes had shone behind the mask when Yuuri pulled Victor into the first turn. His feet were sure, his movements sharp. For the first time since he could remember, Victor had let someone else guide him, abandoning himself to the dance and the joy it produced. Yuuri laughed with mirth, a silvery sound that still echoed in Victor's head. He would give the world to hear Yuuri laugh in a similar manner again.

Guests had moved to the side of the room to give the two of them space. Victor had glanced around to see the other guests head turned toward him and Yuuri, but it hadn't been long before Yuuri's hand caressed Victor's cheek, claiming his whole attention.

“My dance! My Victor,” Yuuri had blabbered, the Russian barely recognisable in his drunkenness. The following words Victor could not comprehend. They lost importance in the heat of Yuuri's body pressed against his, the portion of face visible under his lopsided mask. His ivory skin was flushed. His plump lips trembled as he giggled.

Yuuri had muttered something about the room being excessively crowded and stuffy for his liking. He grabbed Victor by the wrist, a giggling whirlwind, and pushed through the others guests. Yuuri had dragged Victor out the door, down the stairs, and into the street with such an enthusiastic fierceness Victor could only follow him.

Freezing cold had gnawed at their exposed skin, their winter clothes still inside the house. Snowdrifts sided the street. Yuuri, blinking in confusion, had hugged Victor, brushing his face against Victor's shoulder searching for warmth. Snowflakes had begun to fall on their noses. They stood against Yuuri's raven hair in the lamppost lights and under the distant stars. A shiver of cold shook Yuuri's body. Yuuri's warm breath tickled Victor's skin. Goosebumps covered his arms and it wasn't only because of the weather. 

“We should get back!” he attempted to coax Yuuri, who let out a half moan half giggle in protest.

“Don't go!” Yuuri pleaded, looking up at Victor with glimmering eyes and wrinkling his nose. Victor’s heart skipped another beat. Warmth pooled in his lower regions. Yuuri’s mask had shifted and now sat a bit lopsided on his face. Victor was tempted to lift it.

“What are you doing?” 

Old Alina's cries of reprimand broke the atmosphere. She was standing in the doorframe. Her chubby body was wrapped in a big, wool shawl, and her feet were in a pair of old house slippers. She had been the Nikiforovs' housekeeper since before Victor's birth, doubling as _njanja [1]_ when his mother had died, and she spent so much time in their house that often people forgot she had a home of her own. Also that night, despite Aleksey insistence there was no need for her to stay to help during the party, she had been adamant. 

“You're going to catch a cold! Viten’ka, I thought you knew better! Now, bring that poor boy back inside the house!” the woman ordered. She spoke in a blunt manner, not wasting any words. Victor waved to make clear he had heard. He placed a hand on Yuuri's back, wrapping the other arms around his waist. 

“Your hear her! It's not safe to stay here!” he murmured against Yuuri's hair, pushing a little to coax Yuuri to move. In response, Yuuri tried to snuggle a bit more, but eventually followed Victor's steps. He sniffed, brushing his leaking nose with the back of the hand. Victor found it adorable the way Yuuri twitched his nose

 

Back inside, Victor grabbed a chair from the ones lined up against the wall, placed it before the fireplace and wrapped a wool cover around Yuuri's body in a cocoon to warm him up. He put in Yuuri's hands a hot cup of tea Alina had just prepared, a brew she assured was perfect for all the post-hangover symptoms. Yuuri had grunted at first, but as soon as his lips touched the warm liquid he had set in his little place with a contented huff. Victor had fallen hard and fast, his heart doing backflips in his chest, his mind setting on the idea that the charming stranger must be his husband. Yuuri was still wearing his mask. Victor stretched out a hand once again, the temptation to reveal the identity of the man who had given him one of the best nights of his life. His fingerprints traced the mask outline, the little curve above the nose and in between the eyebrow. The mask was tied behind the charming stranger’s head with a loosened ribbon. It would take pulling one thread to untie it. Victor pinched the ribbon end between thumb and index finger. Yuuri didn't seem to be bothered, hands still nursing his cup of tea, head hanging almost lifeless.

He started snoring lightly. Victor couldn't help but chuckle. Yuuri snapped back to reality, fogged eyes blinking in confusion. He squinted, leaning forward as if he wanted to bring Victor into focus. 

“Maybe he should go home,” Alina commented, standing behind Victor, brow furrowed. Yuuri pouted like a capricious child hearing the suggestion. He blinked again. It was becoming difficult for him keeping his eyes open. 

“Yes, you're right.”

 

Victor had reluctantly lead Yuuri to the houseboy standing at the door, with the order to call a carriage and be sure Yuuri would arrive home safe and sound. He asked Yuuri for his address, with all the intention to write it down on the first paper available. Unfortunately, the scrap paper had got lost in the post-masquerade cleaning and the address, muttered in a drunken voice, had escaped Victor’s memory. 

 

 

***

 

A good ballet wasn't only a matter of choreography. There was the music to accompany the dancers' movement on stage and the scenery to bring faraway places and mysterious locations to life. Most of all there were the costumes, sewed fantasies of fabric and sequins to help the dancers to really become their characters.

“And that's why we have to go to my father's fabric shop one of this day,” Victor said, rolling his shoulders.

“We?” 

“Well, I would be happy if you come with me. Besides you have the second most important role.”

“Then I would be happy to go with you.”

 

Aleksey's trade provided the best fabrics in St. Petersburg _guberniia [2]_. The theatre was a client of his even before Victor started his dance career. The number of contacts Aleksey had across Europe gave him access to the best deals, his tight networks always keeping him adjourned on the latest novelty, and he himself had a talent for distinguishing a quality fabric from faux offers. Years of experience made him the best. 

Victor's father had started by being an intermediate in fabric trade, which still represented the majority of his business, but in the last years had expanded by opening a shop in town for direct selling. The number of customers was small, but composed of faithful people, all willing to pay for an exclusive service and the best, costly fabric Aleksey could provide. Those who were rich enough to afford to follow fashion trends, but not excessively wealthy enough to afford haute-couture dresses brought from Paris best boutiques found an alternative by buying the fabrics to have tailors sew the styles at a lower price. 

The shop doorbell rang with a silvery, tingling sound when Victor opened the door, holding it for Yuuri. He greeted the man behind the counter, busy in serving a dame with pepper and salt hair. The salesman acknowledged Victor and Yuuri's presence with a brisk tilt of the head, never breaking eye-contact with the Dame while coaxing her to buy a particular type of brocade, mustard-coloured leaves embroidered on a canary background.

Yuuri looked around at the shop. He had passed by the Nikiforov's fabric shop more than once while living in St. Petersburg, but never entered it, too intimidated. Clear pine wood shelves covered the whole wall behind the walnut counter, with only a portion free to host a small door leading to an upstairs room for the unexposed fabric rolls and the apartment where the salesman lived. The rolls on the shelves were organized by fabrics foremost and patterns second, starting from the top left corner with the blues silks and ending with the flaming velvets. Intricate and delicate laces in white and cream-coloured shadows attired the eye next to organdies that were as impalpable as dragonfly wings.

Victor passed behind the counter and headed for the back door. Yuuri followed him, a bit uncertain, but overall attired by the promise of the still unseen fabrics in storage. His expectations weren't disappointed. On the contrary, it seemed that though the fabrics on sight in the shop were of excellent quality, the best were the ones in storage. Yuuri was immediately attracted to a roll of ink-black crude silk. He touched it with reverent fingers, after having glanced at Victor for permission, and the fabric revealed an intricate geometric pattern invisible if not under the right light. Yuuri wrapped the fabric free end around his wrist to check how the colour matched his complexion. It complemented it nicely, but the heavy blackness almost gave Yuuri's an unhealthy pallor. He moved to a different roll.

A few steps further, Victor was examining a periwinkle-coloured velvet, which changed to mauve when shifted under the sunlight coming from the only window.

”It's very nice,” Yuuri said, moving next to Victor. He touched the fabric, indulging it the way it glided under the fingers, like fresh water. “Is it your choice?”

“Maybe.”

 

Both of them knew the final choices for the fabrics to be used for the show costumes were up to the chief-costumist, but such detail hadn't stopped Victor from convincing Yuuri to spend some hours in the shop to sort through the fabrics they liked the most. Besides, as Victor told Yuuri, the show being based on a story he had carved should give him the possibility to pick up at least the cloth he wanted for his own costume.

“And yours, Yuuri, of course,” he added, blissfully unaware of the hate his partiality toward Yuuri could attire. Still, Yuuri had to admit he was thrilled to wear a costume for once sewed expressly for him and if with a fabric of his liking, allthe better. He was debating on the positives and negatives of letting Victor spoil him when a glimpse of black on the highest shelves caught his eyes. He grabbed the little ladder and climbed it, stretching his body to reach the fabric. It was black like the precedent, but it had a softer glow, a coal-coloured shadow that captured the oranges and yellow from the sunrays. It was embroidered with almost invisible silver and golden threads, crossing in complicated patterns. Yuuri tested the cloth against his complexion. The coal black didn't transform Yuuri's ivory colour to an unpleasant grey, but mellowed it giving the illusion of a glow. Yuuri called for Victor to help him pick the roll from the shelf.

“What do you think,” he asked when they had managed to put the fabric on the table.

”It's perfect. It's this.”

Yuuri caressed the cloth with a feather-like touch, the fear of ruining it holding back his hand. He didn't want to imagine the cost. He turned to face Victor, finding him with his mouth agape in a small awed smile.

“Do you think we can convince the costume designers to use this one?” he asked, curling his fingers inward to stop touching the cloth. Victor looked Yuuri in the eyes, his features arranged in the epitome of seriousness.

“I think the moment they see it, they'll stop having doubts. Just imagine what splendid costume could be sewed from this fabric. Don't you wish to wear it? Can you picture it in your mind?” Victor insisted, his mouth now close to Yuuri's ear. His voice had dropped, mellow like bitter honey. It painted vivid pictures in Yuuri's mind, of him standing before Victor in a costume tailored to highlight his body, the smoothness of fabric against skin. How it would be having Victor slowly undoing the fastening, mouth against mouth, flushed body pressed together. Yuuri's cheeks tinted red.

“Yes,” he muttered, voice retreated in his throat. “I suppose we have to put this back,” he added, pointing at the fabric. 

“Right. I'm going to call Andrej.”

Yuuri nodded. He slid on the floor and pressed his forehead against his knees, legs to his chest, trying to suppress the embarrassing fantasies which were still crossing his mind, and thinking that Victor would be the death of him.

 

***

Unbeknownst to Yuuri, the feeling was mutual.

Victor looked down at the address carved on top the envelope, the words long memorized after months of writing them. If only that night his memory had been a bit better or he- more attentive he could've started courting Yuuri earlier. It had little importance now, as Fate has nonetheless brought them together in its own time and methods. 

 

_Dear Yuuri,_

_Mila wants me to refer her family would be thrilled to have you as a guest for dinner at their place, Saturday evening. It will be an absolutely informal family dinner. I and my father will be there too (papa has business to discuss with Vanya, Mila's older brother)._

_I will be waiting for an answer. Though I would be happy if you accept, please do not feel pressured._

_Sincerely yours_

_Victor._

 

_Dear Victor,_

_let me thank you, Mila, and her family for the invitation. I know the Babichev family has its own fame in town and being invited by them for a family dinner is an honour. A maybe strong word, you would say, but it conveys well my feeling at the moment._

_Please let Mila know I appreciate and accept her invitation._

_Yuuri._

 

_P.S. I have a little trouble remembering the Russian etiquette for guests at dinners. Care to give me a revision tomorrow after the rehearsing?_

_P.P.S. I am glad I will have a chance to see you during the dinner._

 

The smell of food soaked the air, buttery and strong, filtering under the still closed door. It was mouth-watering, with its crispness and the spicy notes whetting both the nostrils and the mouth, a prelude of all the dishes that would be disposed on the table. Yuuri lifted his hand, knuckles facing the wood, and battered against it with a fast succession of soft blows. He was alone and from the inside of the room he could hear the sound of cutlery and glasses, along with small chats as appropriate for a good, albeit little, family gathering. Yuuri's stomach grumbled, the delicious smell of roasted potatoes caressing his nose with promises. Victor had warned him about how Mila's mother liked to stuff her guests, adding it would be a deep offense to refuse to eat anything or, worse, eating it in small quantity. Since Yuuri’s normally strict diet wouldn't be accepted as an excuse, he had starved himself till morning and now was hungry to the point of pain. 

”Must be Yuuri,” Victor's muffled voice came from behind the door. He opened it with a giant grin on his face and for a moment Yuuri was sure Victor would hug him. In the end, Victor contented in putting an arm around his shoulder to guide him inside. Yuuri put on a pair of house slippers and looked around.

The Babichevs lived in a house slightly bigger than the Nikiforovs' but not as much decorated; the furniture was grandiose, but old-fashioned, and the little knick-and-knacks looking as the legacy of previous generations. 

“You must be Yuuri,” a young man sporting the same red hair as Mila greeted Yuuri. “Ivan Mikhailovič,” he introduced himself. Yuuri bowed slightly in acknowledgement. “And that boy there is my brother, Dimitri,” Ivan continued. 

“Nice to meet you,” Dimitri muttered, looking at his shoes.

Mikhail Babichev, the host, was sitting on the couch, nursing a glass of wine and engaging in a conversation with Aleksey.

“Thank you for the invitation,” Yuuri addressed him. He was welcomed with a little smile and a nod of the head, before Mikhail returned to his previous chat. 

“Why don't you sit down while we wait for dinner?” Mila invited Yuuri, pointing to an armchair with a grin. “And no need to be shy, we're friends!”

 

Indeed, despite Yuuri's worries, the dinner passed smoother than he had expected. The food was as abundant, but the landlady less pressing than feared. Nonetheless Yuuri thanked his education for having taught him to refuse something without seemingly he wished to offend anyone.

The seats have been arranged for him to have Victor on one side and Ivan on the other, a placement he supposed Victor and Mila had combined, judging from the little smiles of complicity they exchanged during the dinner across the table. Yuuri would've lied, however, saying he didn't appreciate the situation, the feeling of having Victor fingers' a hair from touching his.

It made him dare to believe the link they had on stage may be translated into everyday life. More than once, in between courses, Victor had leaned sideways to whisper something in Yuuri's ear, little comments about the food or compliments about his persona, which made Yuuri blush and hide behind the glass, carefully sipping wine. The alcohol he drank was little this time, but enough to warm his cheeks and loosen his mood and tongue. 

Enough for him to snuggle against Victor when they all sat down on the couch in the living room, Aleksey and Mikhail smoking cigars while playing chess and discussing business with Ivan and Mila reading a letter plopped down on an armchair. Dimitri had excused himself, for he was tired for the amount of study his professors had given him.

Yuuri was complimenting Madame Babicheva for the dinner. “Thank you, dear. But you should thank our Masha. She's the one who cooked.”

”Well, it was very good.”

 

The room was filled with the background music coming from a phonogram placed against the wall, the warm and powerful voice of a Soprano diffusing in the air. Victor was singing the song's words only moving his lips, an arm looped around Yuuri's waist. Yuuri hadn't noticed when it had happened, but discovered to not be bothered much by it. He had his legs folded, knees against his chest, his head on Victor's shoulder. The combination of abundant dinner and safe environment was making him drowsy and his eyelids heavy.

“Oh, I love this song!” Victor exclaimed out of the blue, jumping off the couch. Yuuri snapped his eyes open, being unceremoniously pushed aside by Victor's enthusiasm. The music has changed to a folk ballad, male voices singing in a choir. A barrel kept the rhythm under the frenetic sound of a stringed instrument.

”Dance with me!” Victor invited, with a hand on his hip, the other above his head, already moving the first steps. Mila clapped her hands at regular intervals. “Yop,” said the song and Victor twirled on place, silver fringe lifting with the movement. It was an improvised dance, made of little jumps and passionate twirls, but what mattered most was Victor's expression as he moved. Yuuri was entranced. Victor beaded forehead was crossed by a deep wrinkle, his eyebrows knitted together in concentration.

His mouth, however, was open in a sincere smile, white teeth flashing in the dim room light as he twirled round and round.

”Come on, Yuuri, dance with me!” Victor repeated, a little out of breath. He swept his sweaty fringe from his eyes, but it fell back in place. Yuuri, saton the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees and head leaned back, looked up. The tiredness caused by the rich food and the late hour was slowly being replaced by anticipation, the thrill of dancing with Victor without having to worry about perfecting the choreography. It would be only dancing to his heart’s content, letting his body be immersed in the vibrant music. His foot began to beat against the parquet floor following the music rhythm. The background song had changed in the meanwhile. Yuuri recognized some of the words, something about the long-awaited arrival of the Spring. 

 

He eventually stood up. His steps were nowhere as gracious as Victor's, who seemed to have the dance well embedded in his body. It vaguely reminded him of a _kalinka [3],_ the ball of the foot and then the heel beating against the floor. The fast-paced music pumped in Yuuri's vein as he tried to keep up with Victor, thanking his training as a dancer. 

 

”Look at this!” Aleksey exclaimed, over the music, the laughing, and the clapping of hands. “One would think years away in France transformed your son into the perfect little gentleman, draining out even the last drop of Russian blood from his veins, and then he proves you wrong!”

“I'll never forget my roots, papa, not even in a million years. Rest assured of this.”[4]

 

The music came to a stop and with it the dance. Both Yuuri and Victor sat back on the couch, faces red and sweaty. Their chest raised up and down as they caught their breath. 

 

Yuuri found himself wishing he wouldn't have to take his leave. How sweet it could be if his days were always like that, with Victor at his side in a nice home filled with hope and laughter. Seeing him so well at ease, made homesickness surge in Yuuri’s chest, enough that his eyes became a bit wet. 

Somehow, sometimes Yuuri envied Victor, a man who had everything from life, but then he remembered all the moments Victor had spent with him and how kind and considerate he had been and envy melted away.

Especially there was no space for any negative feeling in Yuuri's mind when Victor had just decided to wrap him in a tight embrace, warm and cosy. Blood rushed up to Yuuri's already flustered cheeks. His eyes widened in surprise, as he let his arms go limp at each side of his body. 

“Don't worry Vitka, you'll see him tomorrow,” Aleksey laughed, with just a hint of reprimand in his voice. Victor pouted, but let go of Yuuri and eventually followed Mila, who had called him from the living room.

“Before you leave, I would like to have a word with you,” Aleksey reprised, looking straight in Yuuri eyes. Yuuri's body went stiff almost immediately, his head bowed, his shoulders slumped a little in small, instinctive responses to make himself as less noticeable as possible. From what it was said in town about him, Yuuri knew Aleksey was an affable man, who treated both friends and enemies with kindness. Nonetheless, he couldn't help but feel at unease before Aleksey's expression, now gone serious, no trace of the previous joyfulness to be found.

“What is that?” he murmured, forcing his voice to be steady. He rummaged through his memories in search for something he may have done to upset the man, but couldn't come up with anything. 

“Viten'ka is very fond of you,” Aleksey considered out loud, throwing a side-glance to the living room from where it came the sound of Mila saying something and Victor's laughing in response. Yuuri fought the urge to divert his gaze.

Though he wished he could refute, the past months had provided him with enough evidence of what Aleksey had just affirmed. Yuuri could pick any moment he had spent with Victor during the summer and Victor would always be affectionate, reaching out to him in little touches, as if he was afraid of chasing him away. When he didn't touch him, he would smile from a joke or a compliment or simply from Yuuri's presence; or he would advance the proposal to lengthen their time together. 

“I suppose you're asking me what are my intentions.”

“More or less.”

“You don't have to worry. I assure you I would never do anything to bring sorrow to your son. If you allow it, I would like to see how things will evolve on their own.”

 

Yuuri hoped Aleksey would be satisfied with this response, because it was the clearest he could come up with to express the mixtures of feelings and fears wrapped around his heart. Deep inside something was screaming about how he had had a crush for Victor since the first time he saw him, how much he cherished every little moment he had with Victor, how Victor was probably the person he held dearest after his family. He didn't know what love was supposed to feel like, but he was becoming more certain that the sentiment blossoming in his stomach every time he was with Victor was close. It was expectation, fearful joy, surprise, and daydreaming in bed before sleep. 

Still, there was another part, the rational part of his brain, the same that had allowed him to survive for all the five years he spent in Russia. It told him to not dream too far, to not forget who he was, a dime-a-dozen danseur without a special quality. What he had with Victor looked like a fairytale, but happy endings were rare in this reality.

“It's a good answer,” Aleksey commented. Yuuri wondered if it was some kind of blessing, the kind young suitors asked for from the parents of their love interests, but tossed the idea aside finding it excessively official. Instead, he put on his light coat, which the housemaid had retrieved for him in the meantime, and bid his goodbye to the Babichev and Victor, not missing to thank them again for the hospitality. 

***

 

August passed in the blink of an eye, like someone had decided the months must be cancelled altogether from the calendar. If it weren't for the thirty-two boxes Yuuri had crossed out with a soft red pencil, he would've believed the last summer month never existed.

In a bit more than a month, _Soblazneniye printsa_ would debut, to find out if months of hard work would be celebrated in glory or drowned if harsh critics. The thought made Yuuri a bit nauseous, the ever-present shadow of failure following him from a short distance. He could see himself as the perfect scapegoat if anything would go wrong.

Yuuri ran his fingers over the dark fabric to calm down a little, setting aside what had yet to happen to indulge in the smoothness of the rhinestones trading the high-collar of the bodice and the waist. A knee-long, pleated, organdy skirt sprout from the bodice. The costume had been yet another one of Victor’s ideas, meant to communicate the duality and ambiguity of the masculine and feminine gender for a Seducer who was neither male nor female. The costume upper part was squared with straight, aggressive lines, which traced a long-sleeved jacket with silvery buttons decorating the fastening. The lower part, however, was feminine, a skirt almost immaterial to the touch. Yuuri's figure, albeit muscular, was lithe and lean and for sure somebody in the audience would be left wondering.

“Don't move!” Nina’s, the chief customer, reprimand reported Yuuri to the reality of a large room where the seamstresses transformed the fabrics into beautiful costumes. The sudden sting of a needle against his right hip made Yuuri's flinch, sending the message across. However, it was something he was used to as up to now he had always worn costumes sewed for someone else, which needed some adjustment. Often they were done at the last minute.

“Told you!” Nina muttered with pins filling her mouth.

Yuuri murmured an apology. With the corner of his eye he could see a glimpse of lilac, the colour chosen in the end for Victor's costume and, from what from he could hear above the buzz, it seemed also Victor was disobeying the order of staying still.

“Try to move. Tell me how it feels!” Nina ordered. Yuuri moved a few steps away to comply, turning his torso and raising his arms to check the fit of the bodice. He tentatively lifted his right leg in side split, body leaning sideways to adjust the stretch and the skirt shifted accordingly. It slid like water, pooling on his thighs, and didn't impede the difficult movement in the slightest.

“It feels good,” Yuuri assured. Nina nodded, squinting her eyes in search for any defects. She made Yuuri turn and added some more pins oon the back to sign the points that needed adjustment.

”Alright, you're free. Take it off.”

 

Back in his simple training clothes, Yuuri noticed the black corner of something peering from under silky remnants folded haphazardly. He picked it up with caution, moving the fabric aside just enough to retrieve the object. His mouth opened in surprise as his eyes widened in recognition for the mask he had worn at Victor's party months before. Yuuri turned it in his hands, tracing the lace trimming bordering the object. Some of the little, dark beads that filled the decoration above the eyes had come off and there was a needle tucked in the mask's fabric. Wondering how it would feel to wear it again, the vague memories of a forgotten night rising in the back of his mind, Yuuri brought the mask to his face.

 

“I knew it was you!” a voice exclaimed from the other side of the room. “I know it,” Victor repeated, now standing before Yuuri. Fondness and doubt danced on his face, while he reached out a hand to brush his knuckles against Yuuri's cheekbones, just under the mask's hem. He was still wearing his lilac costume, the not-yet sewed decorations swinging from the jacket lapels and his shirt-cuffs.

”What?” Yuuri made a wondering sound, placing the mask back on the table. Victor's brow furrowed for a moment, before relaxing again, a counter altar of his thoughts.

 

“The man who danced with me at the party,” Victor answered, matter-of-factly. Yuuri almost choked on air.

“I danced with you at the party?” he repeated, word by word, as to be sure he hadn't misheard anything. Victor confirmed, proceeding in adding some details about how nice it had been to dance with Yuuri and how cute he was. Yuuri's stared in disbelief. Victor sounded sincere, the enthusiasm too real to have been faked, but the more Yuuri tried to go back in his memories to that night, the more he only saw a foggy blurb.

“You truly don't remember,” Victor admitted in the end, a shadow of sadness wavering on his features. A twinge of guilt twisted Yuuri’s stomach. He shook his head and hastened to add, “But I remember to have drunk. Alcohol does strange things to my memory,” he apologised.

 

“Is this why you were so sure I was good for the Seducer role?” Yuuri asked to change the subject, sparse jigsaw pieces slowly finding a combination in his head. Victor's features softened.

“Yes. And I'm happy it wasn't the last and only time I danced with you.”

Yuuri couldn't have agreed more.

 

***

 

With September’s arrival, the theatre opened the new season with the usual “A Life for the Tsar”, not less successful than the previous years. In the blink of an eye, it was already mid-month. It meant the beginning of the autumn, with the first cold, the shortening of days, the approaching of the première, and, for Victor's enormous dismay, Chris' forthcoming leaving. Victor had spent the summer trying to coax his friend out of his plan, when he wasn't busy pining about Yuuri or lamenting the cruelty of Fate, but uselessly. 

 

“Just think, last year we were packing for leaving Paris,” Victor exclaimed, picking a pile of neatly folded shirts from the chest in Chris's bedroom and placing it on the floor, next to an open leather trunk. “Are you sure you don't want to stay some longer?” 

Chris stopped to arrange his toiletry bag, sitting cross-legged on the bed in a room where half the clothes had been extracted from the chest and spread all over waiting to be arranged for the trip.

”Yes, I'm sure. I told you, there are things I need to deal with at home. A year off is enough.”

Victor put aside the shirts and exchanged them for a pile of pants. His memory ran to a year past, in a nice apartment in Paris, the early autumn breeze blowing on the city. How strange that only a year ago he didn't even know about Yuuri's existence

”Do you think I will need this?” Chris considered out loud, lifting a heavy fur coat by the shoulders. He had bought it in St. Petersburg, soon after his arrival in town, when it had become clearer that his winter clothes were not adapt for Russia's winter freezing temperatures.

“Well, winter in the Alps is harsh too,” Victor replied, “Besides, a fur coat is always useful.”

”Right,” Chris conceded, setting down the coat and weighing an _ushanka_ , before placing it in the proper hatbox. “You have to come visiting me this spring,”

“If the theatre allows me,”

”Or this summer,” Chris insisted, describing how lovely would be the Swiss Alps in bloom, when the first flowers start to peer from the melting snow. 

There was a moment of silence broken only by the soft sounds of clothes being placed in the trunk and the little thuds of bottles and other toiletries. “Have you decided about that idea of yours, of visiting Italy?” Victor resumed, stretching his hands above his head until his back popped. 

”A little. According to Mila and her correspondence with Sara Crispino, La Scala might be interested in new dancers.”

 

”Well, I guess this is enough!” Chris exclaimed soon after, closing a smaller suitcase containing his training clothes and ballet slippers with a sonorous clank. The room had not improved a bit, still looking as if a storm had passed through it and somebody had started to tidy, only to be interrupted half-way. 

“It's a pity you can't wait another month. I still don't understand why!” Victor replied, plopping down the bed with a small bunch and lying across it with a dramatic sigh, worthy of a _Primadonna._

“You'll survive,” Chris started to fold a jacket muttering about how he hated packing, “And shouldn't you help me?” 

Victor rolled on his belly, his chin posed on his palms, and feet swinging in the air like when they were in Paris, gossiping and flipping through fashion catalogues. Chris threw a shirt against Victor. It missed his face by a few centimetres and fell on the floor in a soft, curling pile. Victor sported from the edge of the mattress to pick it back up, muttering about how clothes of such quality and costs shouldn't be used as improper weapons against good-intended friends. He nevertheless resolved to restart folding clothes.

 

After hours of packing, the room began to reacquire a decent aspect. The floor was slowly reappearing and most of the spare socks had re-found a partner. Chris stood on his feet and rolled his shoulders, arching back his shoulder blades until they touched. He glanced around, eyes clearly looking for something as they continued to return to the same vanity. “Something wrong?” Victor asked from his position at the foot of the bed.

“My passport,” Chris replied with a half-heart tone, not stopping a moment of scanning the ambience with a wrinkle growing in depth across his forehead. “And please, tell me you didn't take it!”

“I would never!” Victor raised his hands in defence, feigning offence. “I didn't expect you thinking so lowly of me!” he gasped and pouted in an exaggerated manner. To his dismay, the frown on Chris' face didn't disappear. Eventually, Victor was moved to compassion.

“You left it in the living room, on the little table.”

 

Indeed there it was, orderly piled on top of a steamship ticket, a travelling guide, a freshly emitted visa and a French novel. Chris put all in a leather handcase, carefully tucking the travelling documents in a pocket sewed on the internal side. 

“Have you already made the announcement in the newspaper?” Victor reminded him, standing before the liquor cabinet, eyes examining the offer. His choice ended on a bottle of whisky, the golden brown liquid just under the middle level. 

“Yes. All the formalities your country likes so much had been dealt with.”

Chris closed the hand case clasp, set the luggage on the floor and accepted the glass of vodka Victor had poured in the meanwhile. Victor raised his, as for a toast. 

“To safe travel, then!” he said, the glass shining under the chandelier light.

“To safe travel.”

 

Chris boarded the steamship in the morning, the sun shining pale in the greyish sky. A group of seagulls flew from the deck rails, where they were perched, annoyed by the loud and bellowing sounds of the steamship siren. The last, late passengers hurried on the gangplank, the sea wind blowing in their hair. The siren blasted again, the order to retreat the gangplank was given, under the eyes of those friends and relatives and lovers, who remained on land and gathered on the quay for a last goodbye. Victor and Yuuri waved their arms in farewell. a Chris mirrored the gesture on the deck as the ship slowly took the sea. 

“Don't forget to write!” Victor shouted the remind over the noise of the harbour. 

“I won't. You too, don't forget to write! And Yuuri, take care of him for me!”

“I will.”

 

 

The day after, Yuuri waited for Victor outside the theatre, back leaning against the greenish walls. From time to time he played with the little pouch containing the katsumori he had received the evening prior in a well-welcomed letter from Hasetsu and found reassurance in the familiar good-luck charm shape his fingers were tracing. He walked toward Victor as soon as he spotted him. 

“This is for you,” Yuuri blurted out, offering the little pouch containing the lucky charm. He instinctively bowed his head, a resurging old habit, feeling like a middle-school boy giving a love letter to their crush.

“What is it?” Victor asked, loosening the pouch string and picking the katsumori. He held it high before his eyes, turning the silk-wrapped rectangle to study it for every angle.

”It's a charm from my hometown. It's meant for success. Not that you need it,” Yuuri lowered his gaze, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, fingertips touching in nervous motion “But I thought it would be nice. I mean, it would be something you don't have.”

Victor brought the charm to his face to better examine it, brow furrowed. His fingers traced the embroidered kanji on one side, golden thread on a deep blue background. The other side was decorated by a circle geometric symbol, the temple crest. It was meant to recall the sun.

“So, I hope you like it,” Yuuri reprised as Victor was still lost in the omamori. In his letter Yuuri hadn't been very precise about the charm he intended to gift Victor, hoping Mari would pick something nice enough and stressing for the postal service to be fast enough.

”It's lovely,” Victor whispered. His blue eyes shone with interest as he twirled the charm holding it by the string it was attached to. “What does this mean?”

Victor pointed at the kanji, charm now in his open palm for Yuuri to see it.

”Success,” Yuuri translated, proceeding to explain how the kanji conveyed the meaning. He added the charm contained a formula inside. “But you don't have to open it. Otherwise, the luck will go away,” he added in haste, fearing in his curiosity Victor would try to extract the small scroll with the prayer.

 

“You know, it's been a long time, but now I remember these from when I visited Tokyo.”

 

Victor let the omamori slide into his pants pocket, assuring it was tucked in. Yuuri noticed how Victor indulged a little in the feeling of the charm under his fingers, in the smoothness of the silk. Victor indicated the street with a wide gesture of his arm, flashing Yuuri a big grin. The late summer sun had set behind the horizon, the upper part of the sky already painted of blues and violets. A man was lighting the lampposts. The air temperature had dropped and a shiver shook Yuuri's body.

“May I accompany you home?” Victor offered. Yuuri accepted with a shy nod of his head. Victor's proximity still made his stomach and heart flutter, painting his cheeks pink, but Yuuri had stopped feeling the urge to escape anytime a witness appeared. The streets were not really lively at this hour, but even if they had been, Yuuri would've walked side to side with Victor without feeling the need to explain himself and have his guts twist at every step. Instead, he let his hand swing free until his fingers brushed against Victor's and their fingers intertwined.

“Now that I remember it, I used to have one of these. We were gifted a charm before we left Tokyo. I lost it somewhere in Paris.”

“Maybe it had finished its mission,” Yuuri considered. Victor made a thoughtful, but in the end approving sound. 

 

Yuuri let his feet move on autopilot, the road to his apartment well embedded in muscle memory. When he stopped, Victor imitated him and looked up. 

“So you live here?” he asked. His voice was curious, in no way judgemental. 

“I thought you knew. You did have my address, after all.”

“Yes. But seeing it is different.”

“It's not so bad,” Yuuri hastened to assure. The last thing he wanted was to be pitied by someone, let alone by Victor. He moved to the door, blocking it with his body, in the remote possibility Victor manifested the intention to go inside. One day he may feel sure enough to let Victor enter his bedroom, which doubled as everything else, with the same easiness Victor had done, but it wasn't meant for this evening. The apartment was his little oasis, the small safe port he had built as soon as he arrived in Russia, the place where he could catch his breath and be himself. 

“Thank you for having accompanied me,” he said instead. It was late summer, the sky was still clear and the streets well lit. Nonetheless, Victor's company made Yuuri feel at peace. 

“Anytime.”

 

Yuuri watched Victor until he disappeared at the first turn. 

 

 

Yuuri spent the last two weeks before the première crossing boxes on the wall calendar in his room. The dress rehearsal two days prior had been almost impeccable, so much that neither Ballet Master Feltsman nor Madame Baranovskaya could add more than few adjustment. They had given the dancers the day before the première free to be sure they would arrive well rested for the important event. 

“I said: rest. I don't want to see anyone lounging around St. Petersburg,” Madame Baranovskaya had precise with her stern voice, the menace of being punished well audible in between lines. Nobody even thought to disobey her directives. 

 

The evening of the première arrived too soon for Yuuri’s liking and even in the wings he could hear the noise of steps and people sitting down coming from the audience. A soft buzz echoed in the salle. The autumn signed the opening of the theatre season and the first impression would influence the company image for the whole year.

Yuuri grabbed the cloth of his tutu. Pressure lingered heavy in the air, echoed in the audience subtle chats and in the occasional flickers of the women jewels and the men's pocket watches. Yuuri scanned the theatre sidewalls. His heart sank into his stomach, knowing in the darkness was St. Petersburg nobility, elegant binoculars at the ready.

It was the opening night and the Imperial family would be present. The little food Yuuri had eaten for lunch to avoid passing out on stage twisted in his belly, causing him a surge of nausea. He pressed a hand on his mouth, trying not to think about it.

“There you are!” 

Yuuri turned to face Victor, who too was already dressed in the costume he would wear on scene, hair and makeup done. Eyeshadow in the same colour of his jacket opened in two wings from the corner of his eyes to the temples. 

“Lilia was wondering where you were. It's time.”

Victor signed for Yuuri to follow him into the wings, at the side of the stage from where the dancers would enter on scene. 

 

“Nervous?” Victor continued, as if he had just read his mind. Yuuri bowed his head a little in admission, as there was so use in denying it. A bit of nauseating sickness before any performance had always been a common occurrence for him, but the other times he had had the bittersweet advantage of having a background role. He dwelled in the both dreadful and yet exciting sensation caused by knowing the public would watch him, eat from his hand. He would cast a charm on the audience for everyone to be unable to divert their gaze. Under his tongue and teeth he tasted the rich texture of the dark red lipstick which covered his lower lip. 

Yuuri grabbed Victor's sleeve as Victor was about to slide on stage to set the story going. 

“When you are out there, watch only me,” he whispered. It was neither a request nor a plea, but an order, said with a tone low and commanding. For a moment their faces were so close Yuuri could see his reflection in Victor's eyes. 

“Of course,” Victor replied withouthesitation. He disappeared behind the curtain, perfectly in time with the starting music. There were two dances before the Seducer's appearance, Victor's first solo and group choreography of the Good Fairy court.

The dressing room was a fret of activity, between Ballet Masters giving instructions and ballerinas giving their hairdo and makeup a last fix; enough that Yuuri decided to move to the quieter wings. 

On stage, the scenography changed quietly as the second orchestra piece reached its climax before sliding down to its end. The Fairy’s' court dispersed, leaving Victor alone under the lights. 

Yuuri inhaled, for his moment had arrived. He poured all of his emotions in his dance, from fear and to an iron-strong determination, feeling like his body was transparent as glass. Each movement sang in tune with the music, each gesture was a word. Sureness and power flew in Yuuri's veins as he abandoned to his theatrical _persona,_ his true self-exchanging body and soul for the role he was interpreting.

The acts followed one another, things going smoothly on stage as they were frenetic in the dressing-room, until Victor, back to be alone on stage, mimed the act of ripping his own heart from the chest. The lights went off, the curtains dropped. The silence preceding the public reaction, when people are still too immersed in the story, blocked Yuuri's breathing and froze his body; but it also magnified the cheering. It was fine. He sighed with a hand on his frantic heart, rejoicing for the applause welcoming the dancers back on stage for the last bow.

 

When Yuuri slid back in the wings, the applause was still echoing in the theatre walls, slowly being substituted by the voices of people commenting and moving to continue their night. In the wings, the dancers exchanged congratulations with both words and gestures, tired but giant grins spread on their faces. Yuuri spotted even the gloomy Georgi or Yuri and Sofja smiling, despite their best efforts. 

“Good job,” Madame Baranovskaya complimented them from a corner of the room, clapping her hands a couple time. Her charisma was so imposing her sole presence was enough to call for silence, which however didn't last long, as people were thrilled to celebrate a seemingly successful premier. 

One person was the most enthusiast.

 

“Yuuri, that was great!”

Before Yuuri could be aware of what was happening, he found himself with his feet off the ground and Victor hugging him tightly. Victor spun on his heels, eyes sparkling with joy and excitement. Yuuri's heart thumped in his chest as he looked down, still in Victor's arms, wondering when Victor would put him down. If on stage Yuuri had dressed the part of the Seducer with absolute easiness, capturing the audience as if under an enchantment, in the wings he was only a simple danseur, well aware of the eyes slowly gravitating on them. His cheeks flushed pink.

“Yes,” he acknowledged, painfully aware of his body pressed against Victor's. He swung his feet in the air, placing his hands on Victor's shoulders to steady himself. 

“Can you put me down?” he suggested, tilting his head to a side. Victor giggled and adjusted his grip.

“What if I don't want to?” he teased. Yuuri shot him a glance, brow furrowed but mouth incapable of stopping smiling. Both embarrassment and joy mingled in his stomach, a series of bubbles that made his skin tingle.

“Victor!” 

”Alright,” Victor resigned, lowering Yuuri until his feet were back on the ground. 

 

Yuuri smiled once more before turning his back to Victor. He took only a few steps before he was called once again.

“Where are you going?” 

“To change,” Yuuri answered, gesturing toward his beautiful and delicate costume in explanation. On his face, the carefully done make-up had melted from the sweat. 

“Right!” Victor murmured. Yuuri felt Victor closing the distance between them, putting a hand on his shoulder, sending a thrill through him. 

Yuuri turned in gracious motion, twirling on the demi-pointe as if it was still part of the choreography. Half a year ago, the same gesture would have sent him right to Heaven gates in fear. Now, strangely, he wasn't afraid; more dubious, curious, or even impatient. He noticed how Victor's purple eyeshadow had smudged. 

In a swift movement Victor cupped Yuuri's face, leaned forward, and put his lips on Yuuri's in a rushed, enthusiastic, but overall chaste kiss. Yuuri's heart jumped into his throat so fast it made him nauseous, head spinning in confusion. Victor smiled sheepishly, a breath from Yuuri's mouth. 

All of sudden he looked considerate and shy, careful in all his gestures, as if for the first time ever he was truly at loss of words. In the previous months, Yuuri had seen so many different sides of Victor, been a witness of a whole pinwheel of personality traits. For each, the unnamed feeling Yuuri had for him had grown. He wasn't sure to have enough courage to call it love, but love for sure was the first term which came to mind.

Yuuri reached out to cup Victor's nape and stood on his tiptoes to return the kiss, mouth falling open against Victor's. Adrenaline filled Yuuri's veins, rushing through his whole body as Victor's fingers grabbed raven's tuft and made Yuuri's tilt his head in a more comfortable angle. Victor's lips were soft, his touch kind. Warmth blossomed in Yuuri's belly, a little, comforting fire stretching out its tongues to his fingertips and toes. When they separated, in Victor's eyes he saw a tenderness he didn't consider possible. 

 

A slow, gentle, albeit joking applause spread across the room when they separated. With the last surge of confidence gone, Yuuri's began to wish he could bury himself in the ground and disappear. He didn't like being the centre of all attention when off-stage.

“It was about time!” a familiar voice commented. Yuuri searched for the person it belonged to, surprised when his sight stopped before a little, blonde teenager with a disgusted expression painted on his face.

“Yura, don't tell me you were rooting for them too?” Sofja teased.

“I wasn't rooting for them, Sofka. I was just tired of all the awkwardness they caused!” Yuri snarled, crossing his arms. Nobody believed his anger.

 

 

The night was yet to be finished and after a quick change of clothes, Yuuri found himself socializing and overall doing small talk with the high-end public in the theatre foyer. He dreaded this collateral part, the uneasiness coming from never knowing what to say or do before people of a clear higher social status, and had always had the tendency to avoid it altogether. He normally slipped out the theatre as soon as the performance was over, thinking that if nothing at least dancing a background role left him free from attention.

Not this time, however. Yuuri braced as he walked in the foyer, hoping people would be too interested in Victor to pay attention to him. He wasn't lucky.

“There he is!” Victor spotted Yuuri, gesturing for him to approach, which Yuuri did, trying not to appear too stiff. His palms were already sweaty.

“Lord Derugin was just telling me how he found your performance fascinating,” Victor explained, placing a hand on Yuuri's shoulder. Yuuri's body relaxed slightly under the touch. He rummaged his mind to find the proper response to a compliment.

“Thank you, Lord Derugin,” he replied, praying to not make any gaffe. He bowed deeply. He could never remember the nuances in addressing nobility, never thought he would have to one day. His mind rushed back to Japan, where pretending to be invisible was enough. The less interaction, the better.

“Yes, fascinating. Though a pity the role wasn't danced by a ballerina,” a new voice cut in the conversation. Victor’s plastered smile flinched. It didn't last than half a second, though.

“Prince Gorchakov,” he welcomed the new arrival.

“Choosing two male danseurs was hazardous, don't you think?” Prince Gorchakov continued, talking as if Yuuri wasn't present. Victor's grip on Yuuri's shoulder became more evident and stronger. It gave Yuuri the courage to meet Prince Gorchakov's gaze.

“I am also concerned on the message this would give,” Prince Gorchakov continued.

“Mr. Katsuki’s role was of a creature embodying both genders, Your Highness. Moreover, I wouldn't make comparisons before having seen both sides of the coin. Besides, if I’m not mistaken, both our Holy Church and Gracious Monarchy had approved of same-sex relationships long ago,”[5] Victor interjected. His tone was polite but icy. Prince Gorchakov's smug expression faltered in hesitation.

“You are right, but I am sure a relationship with someone from a potential enemy country was not what the Monarchy had in mind.”

Victor changed the subject, nonchalantly. “Well, I don't see your daughters around. I suppose the scene they put up last month is still to be forgotten.” Prince Gorchakov turned livid; his two capricious daughters' shenanigans were a sore spot, especially for the apparent impossibility to find them a suitor. At the current rate, the family’s branch would disappear.

“Unfortunately they have taken ill, but let it be known we would be pleased to have you as guest one of these days.”

“I am afraid I will have to decline,” Victor replied, voice so cold Yuuri had the impression the temperature of the whole room had dropped.

“I see. Well, I wish you a pleasant continuation,” Prince Gorchakov took his leave. The atmosphere lit up immediately. Yuuri relaxed his pose, while Victor exchanged a few words more with Lord Derugin, not missing the opportunity to comment on Prince Gorchakov's behaviour.

By the end of the evening, Yuuri started to have difficulty in producing a coherent thought, his strength long drained out by all the small talking. His lips hurt from having to smile constantly.

 

“Tired?” Victor joked when the evening came finally to an end. He looked as fresh as if just woken up from a long, refreshing sleep. Only his hair was a bit rumpled, the fringe falling across his eyes in a bizarre curve, after all the times he had swept it away with an elegant flick of the wrist, in a manner that sent both dames and lords swooning. Yuuri had had to resist the abrupt urge to wrap an arm around Victor's waist out of jealousy. On one side, it was unjustified, a silly feeling born from stupid reasons, but on the other Yuuri could still taste Victor's mouth on his and it meant something.

“Terribly. How can you put up with this?” Yuuri muttered, voice muffled in the attempt to suppress a yawn. At least, networking with the high end of the public was something that only happened once in awhile.

“Habit,” was Victor's distracted response. “Is there something on your mind, Yuuri?” He reprised, stepping and leaning forward, a hand curled under his chin, until his face was a breath from Yuuri's.

“Something to celebrate?” he insisted, voice low and suggestive. It made Yuuri helpless like the poor prince Victor had interpreted earlier that evening. The past hours had been a whirlwind of events and emotions, the fear before the performance, the thrill of having the public wrapped around his little finger, the surprise from Victor kissing him. Victor had kissed him and Yuuri had kissed him back. He bit his lips in embarrassment. Victor had kissed him, right before the rest of the company, raising him in joyful triumph. The memory was enough to cause a soft warmness in Yuuri's stomach. Excitement for something which still felt unreal made his skin tingle. Victor had kissed him and Yuuri had enough courage to believe it may work. St. Petersburg's darling, the most desired bachelor in town, may have chosen him, wanted him. 

Yuuri's lips quirked upward in a mischievous smirk. “Well,” he began, shifting his weight from one foot to another, “is that invitation to dinner still valid?”

He underlined his words by brushing his fingers against Victor's chest like little spiders. They ran from Victor's stomach to his sternum, light and fast, stopping right under the hollow in his throat. Joy blossomed in Yuuri’s mind for how Victor's eyes widened in pleasant surprise, shining from mirth like stars at night.

”Of course! Would this Saturday be good? Yuuri, it'll be great, I promise!” he exclaimed, taking Yuuri's hands in an enthusiastic grip. 

 

_“Dear Chris,_

_I hope this letter will find you in good health and in a prosperous condition and etcetera, etcetera. I'm glad to hear your family and friends in Geneva are alright and I don't doubt you'll amuse yourself in Milan._

_As for me,_ I _am the happiest man on this Earth. Today was the day of the première, which I admit caused me not a little turmoil, considering how the idea for the play started for me and a failure could have been attributed to my fault. I mean, the story was nothing but great - I can almost see you rolling your eyes - but sometimes Life does not like artists._

_However, as much as I am rejoicing for the success of the new ballet, it is not the main reason behind my happiness. It feels almost unreal, but it is enough to fill my heart with the bare memory, because tonight I finally gathered enough courage to kiss Yuuri and he did not run away. On the contrary, he accepted and answered my kiss, sending me right to the ninth cloud. I swear time stopped the moment our lips meet._

_Last good news, Yuuri asked me out to dinner. Or, to be more precise, he asked if my last invitation (the disastrous one, remember?) was still valid. What do you think I answered? For sure it was still valid. It will always be valid._

_I must end this letter, now, as tiredness is slowly taking over my body. If I close my eyes, I could still see Yuuri's face and I'm sure my sleep will be not disturbed by nightmares._

_I am so happy!_

_Your Vitya_

 

_Dear sister,_

_as I am writing these few words my hands still tremble with surprise and joy. I feel like I am living a dream or a sweet illusion, with no intention on my part to break it before the inevitable end._

_My heart is fluttering because tonight, at the end of the première, Victor cradled my face in his palms and his lips touched mine in the sweetest gesture. Curious how something so simple can be yet so deep._

_I will not sleep tonight_

_Your brother_

 

 

When Yuuri jumped down the omnibus at the corner of Vladimirskaya and Nevsky, he was glad to find Victor already there, waiting for him outside the restaurant. Yuuri's heart filled with a shy joy for Victor's lips stretching in a beaming smile. Victor was wearing a dark grey suit, the well-tailored jacket open to reveal the underneath waistcoat. A currant red tie was wrapped around his neck. 

“You look handsome,” Yuuri complemented him in a quiet voice. Victor in response offered him the arm, bent at the elbow.

“Not as much as you, dear.”

 

Yuuri accepted Victor's arm but lowered his gaze, eyelashes casting shadows on his cheekbones. He could not quite believe the flattery, too aware of the limited craftsmanship of the suit he was wearing. It was the same he had bought for his date with Victor at the Hermitage, in May. It seemed like a whole life had passed. At least the shirt was fitted, a gift Yuuri had decided to concede to himself.

“I have reserved a table, shall we go?” Victor inquired. Yuuri nodded his agreement. Passing the threshold the firsts glances by the waiters were enough to confirm what he had feared, that his choice of clothing wouldn't be at the level of the place. The gaze of the maître d’ bore down on his shoulders with the weight of his disapproval. The man checked Yuuri out from the toe of his polished but worn out shoes to the top of his gelled back hair.

“There must be a table for two at name Nikiforov,” Victor interrupted any further examination of Yuuri's clothing.

 

“Of course,” the maître d’ plastered on a smile, his features softening in an accommodating expression. Victor smiled his approval, wrapping an arm around Yuuri's waist and tugging him closer. The maître d’ must understand the hint as he turned around, saying nothing but a simple, “This way.”

 

“It's fine. You look gorgeous. You don't bow to anyone,” Victor whispered in Yuuri's ear, walking toward the table, the arm around his waist exchanged for holding Yuuri's hand. Yuuri squeezed back, letting the memories of the thundering applause after the show wash over him.

He straightened his back.

 

 

It was good the dinner would be Victor's treat, a detail about which he had already assured Yuuri multiple times, because otherwise Yuuri wouldn't have enjoyed anything, neither the food nor the ambience, thinking about how much everything must cost. The venue was outstanding: honey-coloured walls, shining parquet pavement covered in deep red rugs, an impressive, tingling chandelier hung from the ceiling. Complex decorations ran all where the walls met the ceiling and around the arched doors.

Their table was at the corner between a window looking down the street and a frescoed wall. Yuuri turned around, twisting his waist in the chair to give a better look at the art.

“Is that picture more interesting than me?” Victor protested. Yuuri faced him, not helping the umpteenth smile as Victor feigned an offended expression, brow furrowed and lower lip pouted.

“It's new,” Yuuri teased back. “But not as pleasing to look at as you.”

Victor beamed.

“Do you come here often?” Yuuri peered from the menu edge, after having read the whole course for the third time without having yet any clue about what to order. Victor tilted his head to the side in wonder.

”Not often. I mean, I've been away quite long.”

“Right.”

“But I remember a dinner here after the six months in Japan and this year I've been here twice. One because papa was so happy to have me home a party wasn't enough,” Victor counted on the point of his fingers, “And another because he had secured a profitable deal.”

Yuuri listened with his chin posed on intertwined fingers, the menu closed and set aside in one last admission of defeat. “Victor, would you please order for me?” 

“For sure. Any preference?”

“Not particularly.”

Victor hummed, his gaze going up and down the opened page. A wrinkle of focus had formed between his eyes, just above his nose. Then, after a while, he put down the menu and cleared his throat.

“Yuuri?” he called, looking serious. “I would be very happy if you start to call me Vitya. Victor has become far too formal.

“Of, of course.”

_Vitya._ Yuuri tasted the name on the tongue, how the two syllables tasted in his mouth, with all the implications. In the end, Victor ordered _solyanka [6]_ soup for both him and Yuuri. 

 

When the hot soup arrived, Yuuri carefully gathered some liquid with his spoon and blew to cool it down. He had never had the dish. Victor had told him to be careful.

“It's very spicy!” he warned. Yuuri assured him it wouldn't be a problem. He blew some more and finally took the first taste. The soup was rich, with the freshness of cucumber mixing well with the beef texture. Yuuri's tongue prickled. He swallowed the soup, letting it warm his throat and stomach. The soup was good and tasty. Yuuri decided he liked it, chewing on a piece of beef and onion. 

“Do you like it?” Victor asked with a hint of laugh in his voice, the satisfaction of having done a perfect order. 

Yuuri knew better than to talk with a full mouth, so he nodded vigorously, the spoon still trapped between his teeth. The hot liquid burnt his throat, making him cough. “It's great. Is it your favourite food?” he wondered, drinking a glass of wine in small, long paced sips.

“While I like it, I prefer _rassolnik[7]._ Yours is a dish from your hometown, if I recall well?” Victor replied, chasing the last drop of soup. Yuuri's plate was shining clean. 

“Yes, Katsudon. It's a pork cutlet with rice, onion and egg. It was my,” he paused a moment looking for the right word, “well, the food for when I was sad. But my mom prepared it also when there was something to celebrate.”

“Tell me about your mother,” Victor so asked. When Yuuri wondered the reason why, he teased, “I need to know my future mother in law.”

Yuuri's cheeks blushed red. Victor may be joking, but it was a dangerous game for Yuuri's poor mind. Sometimes Victor reminded him of a child, with the same straightforward sincerity, simple and even cruel at the need.

“Besides you seemed very fond of her.”

“I am, I have to admit. She had always been, well, motherly. Always full of love for me and my sister. My father used to say I look like her. What about yours?”

Yuuri posed the same, mirrored question to Victor without a second thought. 

Victor stared at him in disbelief. His expression, confused with a hint of sadness, made Yuuri wish he could disappear. Among all the possible moments, he had made a faux pas on their first official dinner together. He waved his hands, pouring apologies.

”I'm sorry. I didn’t mean. Forgive me.”

“It's alright,” Victor assured, “I don't remember much of her, I'm afraid.”

Victor's brow knitted together, in a silence Yuuri didn't force, waiting for Victor to continue if he ever wanted to or, on the contrary, to change the subject. Yuuri must have seen a photograph of Victor's mother during the homecoming party. It was only a glimpse, but enough to notice the uttermost resemblance with Victor.

“She died when I was still little,” Victor reprised.

”Yes, I heard. How old were you?”

“Not yet two years old. But sometimes I have the impression of still smelling her perfume or hearing in my head the lullaby she used to sing.”

“Was she sick?” Yuuri questioned, fingers tickling from the desire of caressing Victor's cheek and hold him in a protective embrace, in a surge of maternal affection. There was a fondness nostalgia in Victor's eyes as he spoke about his past. He looked surprisingly shy. His lips curled into a sad smile that made Yuuri's heart clench.

“Yes. Tuberculosis. Papa says she had a strong spirit but a weak body. She was probably already sick before my birth. Papa had told me there had been a time when he almost believed mama would heal. She had just come back from a month by the seaside in the south, she looked stronger, she didn't have to stay in bed all afternoon. She died two months later,” Victor concluded with simplicity. Again, Yuuri experienced the strong desire to have Victor to sit in his lap and wrap his arms around him. 

”But I can't complain. I had a great childhood!” Victor exclaimed and the mood lifted.

 

The dinner passed slowly, the initial embarrassment between them gradually melting into a comfortable complicity as Victor started telling anecdotes about his years in Paris and Yuuri reciprocated with tales from his days in Tokyo. They talked about the Ballet Company, the teachers they preferred and the one they couldn't stand, having both at least a story about Madame Baranovskaya being terrifying, one about her being surprisingly motherly and one about Master Feltsman's sternness. 

“I have never seen a sloppier pirouette,” Victor gave his best impression of the Ballet Master, in a mocking voice so good Yuuri could only laugh, teeth clicking against the glass of wine he had brought to his lips. The hilarity made the hand holding the glass tremble and some liquid sloshed outside, red drops staining the pristine tablecloth. Yuuri put the glass down before causing further disasters.

“But the prize is the glory!” he mocked back, picking a slice of _millefeuille,_ which had appeared from nowhere right under his nose. This time it was Victor's turn to burst into laughter, strong and clear. 

“Glory,” Yuuri repeated, suppressing an unexpected yawn, his cheek cupped in his own palm, the other hand playing idly with a fork for dessert. He blinked behind his glasses, eyelids heavy with sleepiness. He threw an apologetic glance at Victor, who understood, paid the cheque and stood up. 

 

Victor walked him home.

“May I kiss you again?” he murmured, standing on the landing before Yuuri's door, well closed. Another loving laugh bubbled up to Yuuri's mouth. 

“Of course,” he whispered in response, tilting his head on the side and closing his eyes for the kiss, melting in the sweet sensation of having Victor's hand on his nape and his fingers carding through his hair. He wished it wouldn't end, the impulse of letting Victor inside his room flashing his mind. Something inside of him was craving for more, before the illusion shattered. Instead, he limited to give one last peck at Victor's lips, forcing aside the sense of guilt for the disappointment in Victor’s eyes when he didn’t invite him inside. 

“Goodnight, Vitya, sweet dreams,” Yuuri said from the crack.

“Goodnight.”

*** 

Autumn slugged toward winter, time slowed down in the established routine. With _Soblazneniye printsa_ not being the only ballet programmed for the season, Victor was busy in revising a couple of choreographies from the past years. Yuuri, on his part, was blessed with more free time. The female role belonged to Mariinsky’s Prima and Yuuri can be content with a background role. It had become no secret that, when he wasn't rehearsing with the rest of the Company or alone, he could be found assisting Victor's training.

With the money derived from his role in _Soblazneniye printsa_ and the recent promotion to _coryphée [8]_ , Yuuri could finally breathe in a more stable financial situation.

Though he was aware it would be only temporary, it was refreshing to have still something left for leisure after paying rent, taxes, and other stuff.

“Don't you have errands to do?” Victor reprimanded Yuuri, who was standing in the doorway, a pair of ballet slippers held in hand.

“The shop won't close for a few hours,” Yuuri dismissed his concern with a quick kiss on the cheek, before walking to the ballet barre where he bent his back enough to grab in hand the toes of his foot, leg outstretched. 

“But thank you. That was considerate,” he added in between long, steady breaths.

“I'm proving you I would be a good husband,” Victor said.

“Is sending me a bag of pirozhki each day part of being a good husband?” Yuuri joked, heart fluttering.

“No. That is Alina's fault. She says you're too thin.”

 

Hearing such claim, Yuuri let his gaze drop to his belly and hips. Under the sweatshirt there was a well-defined body, no traces of fat to cover his strong muscles left after months and years of strict diet. He pinched some skin on his side between thumb and finger, painfully aware of how ephemeral such a condition was.

“I suppose telling her it is part of the job would be useless.”

He positioned sideways next to the ballet barre and lifted his left leg in slow _battement fondus,_ blinking in surprise when Victor came to stand right before him, close enough to force Yuuri's to cross his eyes. 

“Yuuri! Not even a kiss?” Victor protested, putting out his lower lip. Yuuri promptly captured it in between teeth in a gentle nibble, with a boldness that surprised him before anyone else. Victor hummed is appreciation and carded fingers in Yuuri's hair, tilting his head to have a better angle.

“Better?” Yuuri asked, the taste of the kiss still on his tongue. moving away just enough to speak.

“Much better,” Victor replied. He smiled against Yuuri's lips.

 

After another quick kiss, Yuuri walked to the side of the ballet room and fell on the floor with a fluid movement, crisscrossing his legs. He hinted at Victor with his chin to continue with his ballet routine and when Victor asked what Yuuri would do, sounding more teasingly curious than chastising, he pointed at his own legs. He uncrossed them, bent one under his buttocks and stretched the other out, toes curling.

“Stretching, see?”

A new smile bloomed on Yuuri's face, making his lips flutter. He and Victor were dating. Those few words still had a strange taste on his tongue, not bad in any way, but quite unreal, like the flavour left by a much vivid dream. He and Victor were a couple. In truth, no attempt to label the nature of their relationship had yet been made and Yuuri was glad for it, preferring to not rush things just like he told Aleksey Nikiforov a few months before. At the same time, however, if by exclusion Yuuri had to pick up a word, he would find no better one than couple. No official status had yet been attached to their relationship, being still at its first steps, nor did Yuuri ever believe there would be an engagement.

 

Deep in the secrets of his heart he hoped for it, for the dream to continue until his dying days, daring to imagine a future where Victor would still be at his side, wanting him. Yuuri spent a lot of his time in Victor's company in these days. It wasn't as much as when they were preparing the _pas de deux_ together, but he grabbed any excuse to be in the same room where Victor's was practising. Sometimes Yuuri too rehearsed the steps, others he practised at the ballet barre or went through a stretching routine to keep his body flexible.

 

At evening, Victor accompanied him home, walking at his side and bidding him farewell with a gentle kiss. On Saturday, if they had time left, they strolled down the Neva, Makkachin jumping happily around their legs, or visited the Hermitage and had a snack in the Palace gardens, wearing heavy sweaters against the autumn chill air. On Sunday, Victor hooked his arm in Yuuri's elbow, when mass was finished and they met outside the church and whispered sweet nothings in Yuuri's ear while they walked away. Sometimes they had lunch together, others Victor excused himself, looking always disappointed by the fact, at which Yuuri just tugged him closer a bit more to look him in the eyes and say there was no need to be sad. They would meet the day after.

Yuuri let out a dreamy sigh, shaking with disbelief, and fell back, hands covering his face and a big grin. An unborn laugh shook his body. He was Victor's boyfriend and though he knew better than to believe it would last forever, though he knew it was only for today and the day after until their numbers end, he couldn't help but being happy.

“Your birthday will be soon, right?” Victor broke the rush of his thoughts. 

“Yes.”

“I shall keep it in mind.”

 

Yuuri's birthday in that year of God 1903 fell on a Sunday. He was born the 29th, which in the Russian Empire calendar translated to the 16th. What mattered, beyond the conversion between calendars, was that the day of his birthday Victor walked with him to the Hermitage gardens after the long morning mass. 

“I bought you a thing,” Victor pushed a small, leather jewellery box toward Yuuri. “I hope you like it.” 

“You didn't have to.” 

The box carried the name _Fabergé [9]_ in silvery letters. Yuuri opened with care the minuscule box clasp, lifting the lid. His mouth fell agape as soon as he saw the contents, eyes shining with wonder and incredulity. Inside the box lay a jewel egg not bigger than a robin egg, glazed in sapphire blue. Intricate and exquisite platinum decorations spiralled across its surface. A line ran along the middle, underlying the clasp allowing the object to open and close. 

“It's magnificent,” he whispered, voice pouring with pure awe. He lifted the present before his eyes, forcing his brain to set aside the exorbitant cost of such a work of art. 

 

“I'm glad you like it,” Victor commented as if Yuuri couldn't like such beauty. “You should wear it.”

“It's too precious to be worn,” Yuuri refuted, putting the egg in its box and then safely into an internal pocket of his coat.

Victor frowned at him. "Nonsense," he said, before pinning Yuuri to the ground. Ignoring any possible protest about the ambiguity of the situation, he padded Yuuri’s coat until his fingers closed around the jewellery box.

“Now turn,” Victor asked, in a voice that gave Yuuri no choice but to obey. He shivered when Victor’s fingers closed the silver clasp and his lips pressed against his nape.

“Look, it’s perfect on you!”

Smiling, Victor tilted his head back toward the feeble, whitish sunrays. One of the Hermitage cats padded in the glistening grass to rub against Victor’s legs, purring. He jumped in Victor’s lap. Victor’s eyes snapped open in feeling the new, uninvited guest set on his thighs. Yuuri found his expression hilarious, in a mixture of confusion and indignation. 

“I'm sure Makkachin won't mind," Yuuri assured, making sounds with his tongue to attire the cat. The feline nuzzled against his knuckles and accepted a couple of scratched under the chin before jumping away, wrinkling his small pink nose. Victor brushed the cat hairs from his pants. Yuuri regretted not having a camera to save the moment. 

Later, they both sat on the grass, green threads tickling their palms. Victor lay across Yuuri, head in his lap. Yuuri caressed Victor’s silver hair from time to time. He picked a book from underneath his coat and read it for all the duration of Victor's little nap. When Victor yawned and stretched, body tensing like a bow cord before snapping back to relaxation, the lowering sun had painted red the western sky. The weather went cold.

Victor walked him home, arm wrapped around his waist as to press their bodies together as close as humanly possible. His lips were soft and warm when he brushed them against Yuuri’s, before bidding him goodbye.

 

Yuuri touched the hollow of his throat, feeling the round shape of the jewel under the layers of clothing. He slid on the floor and burst into a laughter so strong tears spilt from his eyes.

_Dear sister, dear mom and dad,_

_I hope this message will find you in good health and in a prosperous condition._

_As for me, the recent months have been the best in a long time since the day I arrived in St. Petersburg. Several are the reasons for my happiness. The new ballet had been a continuous success for all the autumn and winter season; moreover, all the other, older, productions had attracted a large public. I have also said how the part for “Soblazneniye printsa'” has improved my salary with some extra rubles, which had been extremely appreciated. Talking about this, I am glad to hear the business at the Yu-topia is still good and seems to benefit from the occasional presence of foreign guests. I have no doubt mom’s cooking has conquered them all._

_Ballet always brings me great joy, brightening my time during these short and cold days of winter. I have already talked profusely about Victor in my past letters, expressing the turmoil my soul was feeling. Now the turmoil has subsided, as the recent events leave little doubt about Victor's good intentions; thus I dare to admit we are together, as more than friends and a little less than fiancés. I admit this definition may cause confusion, but I do not know with precision what is the sentiment I feel. Nonetheless, I dare to call it love._

_I am happy, my dear sister, because every time Victor smiles at me, my heart flutters, my chest becomes warm and my mind finds peace. I wish you could meet him, as I have no doubt you will find him as lovable as I do. Mari, you should see the way his eyes shine when he laughs and when he plays with Makkachin (his dog)._

_I ask your pardon, I got carried away. This short letter was also to inform you Victor's best friend had invited Victor to visit him in Geneva, in April, and the invitation was extended as to include myself. Thus, if work allows me, I will have the pleasure of spending a week in the Swiss Alps, which I have never seen, but voices tell me they are of a stunning beauty (Victor always repeats they are nothing compared with me. I'll let you imagine my flustering)._

_I also visited the Alien Office and I’m happy to inform you my staying permit was renovated for another year. In short, everything is fine._

_I kiss and hug you all._

_Yuuri_

 

It was a freezing and clouded Thursday in early February when the dream started to crack.

Victor was explaining in details the train route they would have to take to reach Geneva the following April, underlying for the umpteenth time how his heavy seasickness prevented him from taking the steamship. Most recently, the Bolshoi had shown an interest in _Soblazneniye printsa_ and soon Victor would have a trip there to present the ballet in person. He has spent the last days insisting for Yuuri to come too and Yuuri had to admit the idea had started to entice him. If nothing, it would be a well-welcomed escape.

“And we change at Daugavplis,” Victor was saying, curling a finger for each change the travel would require. Yuuri listened with half a heart, his eyes glancing around, a strange feeling in his stomach which had been there since he walked out of his home in the morning. Something captured his attention.

”Wait!”

Yuuri abruptly halted on the pavement, raising the arm not hooked with Victor's to point at a newspapers dispenser on the other side of the street, which he crossed in haste with little care for carriages and cabs, Victor tripping behind him.

”Something wrong?” Victor questioned, massaging the side of his neck and brushing the dust from his coat, after having been almost ran over by a horse. Normally Yuuri would have fret over a similar possibility of an accident, but his attention was absorbed by the reading of a copy of the _Novoye Vremya [10]_ he had picked from the dispenser. As he read a wrinkle deepened between his eyes, while a shaking took over his hands and a lump blossomed in his throat. He blindly stretched out an arm to press his palm against the nearest wall, fingers grabbing the fragile paper, low-cost ink staining his fingerprints.

“Yuuri?”

 

Victor's gentle touch on Yuuri's shoulder made him startle. He lowered the crumpled newspaper, sheets shuffling in the winter wind, and handed it to Victor, legs still shaking. The words he had just read spun in his brain, the title in giant, capital letters stood clear against his closed eyelids.

“I had the impression of being stared at,” he muttered, “But I thought it was the usual. It wasn't.”

The Japanese fleet had attacked the Russian in Port Arthur, two days prior. Yuuri bit nails into palms to stop the subtle, but persistent shaking. Fear coiled in his stomach, a feeling he knew may be unjustified, but if his past experience meant something, the horizon was nothing but dark. 

Yuuri pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head as a hiccup sounding almost like a laugh escaped his lips.

 

“It's not your fault,” Victor exclaimed, breaking through his thoughts.

Yuuri wished he could believe Victor's attempt to reassure him. His family had nothing to do with anything involving the military. It wasn't Yuuri who ordered the Japanese fleet to attack the Russian ships. It was something that had happened thousands of kilometres away, far from the apparent safety of St. Petersburg.

Yuuri told himself he was not his own country. He was barely feeling something from the news of Japan’s victory. He should have felt proud, he supposed. Instead, there was only sadness and dread creeping under his skin. Without looking he reached out for Victor's hand, warmth spreading in his stomach as soon as Victor held it. 

“It's not your fault.” 

Victor repeated, wrapping his arms around Yuuri like if he wanted to protect him from the world. His wool knitted scarf brushed against Yuuri's nose. Yuuri pushed his forehead against Victor's chest, fingers anchoring to his coat for dear life, wishing for time and space to freeze in that instant; but his mind was stuck in the past, repeating the day Oleg Vladimirovič had decided to leave at once because he stopped feeling safe in the city that had been his home until the day prior. At the time the Russian and the Japanese empires weren't even at war. He couldn't chase the memory of a house once so warm and then deprived of laughter, the mourning still in the air. Yuuri remembered a dining room and his first ballet teacher telling him he couldn't stay there any longer in Japan. Nothing of Oleg Vladimirovič had remained in Tokyo. 

 

“You are not alone,” Victor said, like he had read Yuuri's thoughts, a ray of sunlight breaking through his deepest worries. “Maybe there won't be a war,” he added, the hope in his voice so forceful it made Yuuri’s heart clench.

 

They were blessed with six days of limbo before the lightning struck. It was Mila to bring the news, in a hurry, flaming red curls escaping her long braid. 

“Have you heard?" she asked as soon as they exited the theatre. 

Both Yuuri and Victor denied, shaking their heads almost in unison. She glanced and pulled a rolled newspaper from under her fur coat. 

"The negotiations failed. The Tsar has declared war on Japan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Nanny  
> [2] Major and principal administrative division of the Russian Empire. Governorate.  
> [3] Famous Russian folk dance and song, originated in 1860.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PwS50EDcMGE (If you want to have an idea of both the dance and the song)  
> [4] This whole scene is an homage to the “Natasha folk dance scene” in War and Peace  
> [5] As I’ve already told, it’s a universe where homophobia is not truly a thing  
> [6] Sour Russian soup  
> [7] Traditional Russian soup made from pickled cucumbers, pearl barley, and pork or beef kidneys  
> [8] A member of a ballet company who dances usually as part of a small group and who ranks below the soloists.  
> [9] Because Victor is extra. The egg is something like this: https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/398709373251917393/  
> [10] A Russian newspaper published in St. Petersburg from 1868 to 1917
> 
> Hi, everyone! Thank you, as always, for having read! This chapter is the longest I’ve written up to now - and I believe ever! It marks the end of the first arc, all fluff and romance and pining, and the start of the second arc, which I warn you will be full of angst.  
> But this story will have an happy ending, so no need to lose fail. Love will find a way.
> 
> Kudos and glory to [ Artsdefine05](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artdefines06/pseuds/Artdefines06) and [ Curlavski](http://curlavski.tumblr.com) and [ rogovich](https://rogovich.tumblr.com)
> 
> I’m going into hiatus for the holiday period (during which I’ll work on chapter 9 and edit chapter 5) and be back uploading from the second week of January.
> 
> Like always, comments and kudos are very much appreciated.
> 
> And, if you want to ask things or chat or anything, hit me at [ Gwen-Chan](http://gwen-chan.tumblr.com) , where my ask box is always open.


	5. Chassé, en tourant

**Chassé, en tourant**

_My dearest,_

_Moscow is cold both in weather and in the way it welcomes its visitors. I know you would say I am biased toward this city, but if only you were here (which you are not and I hate every single instant of it), you would agree with me. Let this stay between us, but the city is nowhere as grandiose as young Plisetsky had described it to be._

_On the bright side, Bolshoi theatre is astounding. I wish you were here to admire its interiors, as words cannot do it justice, the way everything is bathed in gold and glimmer under the chandelier soft light. Along with gold, it is red the colour dominating Bolshoi main theatre, giving the illusion of a giant forge._

_Lilia is still famous in these environs and pronouncing her name is enough to elicit people's respect, which had proven useful more than once in the past days._

_If plans do not change, for which I pray, I will be back in Petersburg in a matter of days. I hope the first face I will see stepping down the train will be yours. I am counting the hours from the moment I can hold you in my arms and at night, before I go to sleep, you are my last thought._

_With love,_

_Vitya_

Yuuri looked in his cup of tea, the amber-coloured surface distorting his features when a soft blow rippled it. The tea returned a melancholic face, mirroring Yuuri's worries with uttermost fidelity, as he lifted the cup to his lips for a first, careful sip. Warm vapour fogged his glasses. He cleaned them against a corner of his shirt, the cup set down on the most recent number of _Novoye Vremya [1]_ , open on page four. A spot of tea had smudged the ink in several points, but the article was overall still readable and bearer of gloomy news.

In between crown imposed censorship and rhetorical outbursts, the news couldn't completely hide how the Russian fleet wasn't the one with the upper hand, though the situation seemed to have come to a painful stall. In hope to crush the enemy with superior numbers, several young soldiers have been recalled into service. Just a few hours prior, when he had crossed ways, Mila had told Yuuri her brother was among those, before rushing away without much of any additional chat; as if she was trying to avoid him. 

Yuuri rolled the newspaper and set it aside with a resigned sigh. As a new presence standing across the table got his attention, he lifted his gaze.

"Hi, Georgi," he greeted, opting for the first name only, without the patronymic, after a thoughtful moment. Despite being only acquaintances, he and Georgi were still part of the same Ballet company, which allowed Yuuri to get away with a little bit of confidence.

"Hi. Care if I sit?" Georgi greeted back, placing a curled hand on the top edge of the seat, to underline his request.

"Go ahead. Can I offer you something? What can I do for you?"

"That's very kind of you. I think I'll take advantage of your offer and take a baked apple," Georgi answered, as he divested his outer layer of clothes and sat down, placing his intertwined fingers on the table, "But I am not here for a request. You seemed forlorn and I thought you may as well use some company."

"Oh, thank you."

Yuuri gestured toward a waiter to ask for Georgi's baked apple, an extra cup of tea, and a little slice of _medovik_ for himself. He had never talked with Georgi face to face for more than a few minutes, en passant, and by no means he could say he knew him. Therefore Georgi's initiative had come totally unexpected, but not unwelcome, especially with Victor away for presenting _Soblazneniye printsa_ at Bolshoi in the hope of expanding the new ballet presence in other theatres. At first Yuuri should’ve gone too, something about which Victor had insisted with particular vigour; but with the war outburst, Mariinsky Director had deemed it preferable not to. 

"I have heard you have been offered a role at Vienna Court Opera," Yuuri resumed, hoping to break the ice with a compliment.

"Yes, that was quite a surprise. But I'm still reflecting on the offer. I'm very attached to this city and its theatres."

Georgi thanked the waiter for his newly arrived dessert and tea with a nod of the head, proceeding in picking up a brew and sugaring the beverage in abundance. "But I was more concerned about you. I know we may not be close, but let be known I am not against you. In lights of the recent events, I hope to not come out as meddlesome if I ask how things are going."

"Not at all. It's good having someone with whom to talk in these days."

Yuuri placed his cheek on the closed fist, elbow on the table, wondering how much could he open up. He had little doubt Georgi had approached him now to fill the empty space momentarily left by Victor, with whom Georgi seemed to have a relationship of both rivalry and friendship Yuuri couldn't quite grasp. He guessed, however, it was in the light of such mutual acquaintance Georgi had offered him a hand in friendship, after years of the respective lives barely brushing.

"As for things, I must admit they aren't bright," Yuuri eventually confessed over a spoonful of honey covered cake, "But it could be worse. Maybe these past days have been the harshest, but I have still some friends to soothe the loneliness."

It was a strange condition being from an enemy country when the war was so distant. In most of the days he almost didn't feel any difference in respect with when there was peace, apart from a certain coldness reminding him of his very first days in St. Petersburg, when everything seemed distant and unfamiliar; but he had also received his dose of cruel comments, invitations to leave and blaming from some other dancers in the Ballet Company with relatives directly affected by the war. 

"And I also understand the decision of the theatre to use miss Bulgakova for the latest representation of _Soblazneniye printsa_. Mariinsky’s reputation comes first."

"This doesn’t justify the way they treated you, though," Georgi replied, leaning forward. For a moment Yuuri had the impression Georgi would take his hands in his, as to underline his solidarity. The majority of S _oblazneniye printsa_ cast had been appalled in learning the news Yuuri was excluded from the production; Yuri had ranted for hours and Victor had plastered on the fakest smile Yuuri had ever seen. There had been even a hint of creepiness in it.

"Sofja is a great dancer, your interpretation is a whole other thing," Georgi continued, his compliment so casual it could be nothing but sincere.

The distant sound of the bells ringing announced six sharp when Yuuri apologised for having to take his leave, remarking once more his thanks for the conversation, which had slowly shifted to lighter topics to distract their minds. A dark night had already fallen on the city, as visible through the frosted windows, and a cold wind blew inside each time someone opened the tea room entrance door.

"I would tell you to be careful, but I know you don't need it. Still, if you want some company on your way home, I am free," Georgi offered, standing up and retrieving coat, scarf and _ushanka [2]_ from the empty seat where he had put them.

"I think I've already exploited your time," Yuuri refused, as he placed some coins on the empty cake plate, leaving a little tip for the service. "Thanks again."

Loneliness hit him with renewed strength as soon as he was alone again, which he could only find ridiculous considering all the years he had already spent with only his own company. Neither the long nights, with a late dawn and an early sunset, nor the freezing was a novelty, but in the last month the darkness had looked thicker, felt more oppressive. Yuuri tilted his head back and his heart sank a little deeper noticing how the clouds had blotted out the moon and the stars. The halogen street lamp light was too cold, as much as the weather, and it sent shivers down his spine. 

He walked home taking the shortest route, with hands buried in his pockets and head ducked against the wind, scarf wrapped up to his eyes. 

There was mail waiting for him. Yuuri shuffled through the closed envelopes as he walked up the stairs, fixing the key into the lock with a single-handed, practiced movement; a cold and eerie shadowed ambience welcomed him, a reddish glow coming from the heater and casting strange blades of light on the floor. Yuuri threw the mail on the bed, divested himself of coat, scarf and gloves, and rubbed his palms together, puffing on them. He shuffled through the drawer for the matches, ignited the gaslamp, livened up the fire inside the heater, and set up dinner. Only when the room had regained a semblance of warmth, did he satdown on the mattress with a knife in hand, opening each envelope with a sharp and quick gesture. 

The first letter was a short message from Victor, written on the back of a postcard picturing the Red Square, Saint Basil Cathedral in the background. It was a view so common Yuuri couldn't help but to find it kitsch as he leaned forward to open the bedside table drawer and let the postcard slip inside, among all the objects he would save with care. The drawer closed with a thud, which made the candle flame flicker. 

There was a letter from Mari, one from an admirer, and a couple from people who had nothing better to do than to pray for his death. One was from a mother who blamed Yuuri for her late son’s death on the battlefield, affirming him and the whole of his kind were a disgrace; people like him were better nowhere but underground. The other, from a balletomane, threatened to put a bullet in his head the next time he would be on stage. A freezing shiver traversed Yuuri’s body, though the letters were by now a common occurrence and so far they had become nothing more. There was a strange and sad curiosity in how fast men could get used to even the worst treatment. 

When Yuuri arrived at the last envelope, bigger and heavier than the precedent, his hands were already trembling a little. He traced an address he knew all too well and read his own on the same envelope, hoping for it to be different than what it was. 

He closed his eyes, counting up to ten, but when he opened the letter was still in his lap, bearing the signature of the Alien Office. The inside message, however, revealed to be surprisingly brief. The authorities were summoning him, without specifying the reason for it, however, or saying if a final decision had already been made. It instilled doubts in the mind of the receiver, who soon or later would develop a fear for something he only may have done or may happen. 

The room spun around once without control, the floor swaying as if the hardwood had been replaced by swirling syrup. Yuuri looked down to see his own feet disappearing in a puddle of foggy darkness, while his head began to feel dizzy from the shortness of his breaths. He scrambled under his shirt until his fingers closed around the smooth surface of the jewel set between his collarbones. Tracing the fine texture with sensible fingerprints, Yuuri squinted his eyes shut, where illusions had no power, and focused on restoring his breathing to an even pattern. For a moment he was back to being a quiet but nervous child who spent more time at the local temple, always attached to Minako’s skirts, than home or anywhere else. 

Mari's letter had fluttered on the floor. Yuuri's leaned forward to retrieve it, a sadness surging from his stomach to his mouth and leaving a bitter taste in it in watching the ideograms traced in Mari's quick handwriting. 

_Dear brother,_

_Your latest letter brought us both happiness and sadness._

_I will not lie to you, nor I will hide anything as these are not the right times to indulge in a such behaviour. The day we heard the news about the just declared war, my thoughts ran immediately to you, fearing how you would take the change and how it would affect your life. Now, I cannot set aside a feeling of doom every time I imagine you being so far away._

_I know you are a grown man, but allow me to be your older sister once more: you should come back._

_It has been a few moments since I wrote those last words and I already know you will not follow my advice. You are too proud to do so. In any case, you will be happy to know the war has not yet affected excessively our small town and the Yu-topia and I pray it will not in the future. Just like I pray the gods for your safety. Keep your head up, little brother._

_Love,_

_Your sister_

_P.S. Young Minami came to visit last month. That poor boy will lose his senses the day he will meet you in person. It reminds me of a certain someone._

Yuuri folded the letter and put it back in its envelope. The idea of returning home was neither a novelty nor something recent. Yuuri had more than once caressed it in the past, during the occasional peaks of discomfort. He had never indulged in its execution, though, pride being stronger than sadness, and the simple fear of disapproval was enough to keep him in St. Petersburg. That happened before meeting Victor, who made Russia feel a little more like a home for Yuuri, giving him a further reason to stay where he was and wait until the storm would have passed.

Immersed in his thoughts, he gathered the sparse mail on the bed. He threw the torn envelopes, the pieces of paper, the blackmail notices in the stove. He added Mari's letter to the older ones, in a box under the bed and Victor's postcard ended in the drawer with all the other memorabilia. Only the Alien Office's message remained on the mattress. With a sigh, Yuuri picked it up from an angle, as if it could burn his skin, and set it on the small desk.

**__** _Dear sister,_

_As I am writing these words my hands tremble, while the source of my troubled mind stands clear before my eyes._

_It is a strange and sad coincidence that your suggestion to return to Hasetsu arrived today of any other day. Indeed, I fear I will not be allowed to stay in Russia for much longer. Mari, the Alien Office wants to see me tomorrow, which brings me to think nothing but the worst scenario. In these years I tried my best to conform to the rules of society here, trying to compensate in culture what I could not change in physical aspect. Still, I have the feeling all the struggle has proved useless in the end. My recent important role in the last ballet show has only worsened the matter. You should agree with me Life can be cruel sometimes, as the thing putting me in a position of danger happens the year when I leave the backstage for the stage spotlight. I reached fame and now it is my ruin._

_I feel like I do not belong anymore. I know who I am. My name is Katsuki Yuuri, I was born twenty-four years ago in Hasetsu, Kyushu, and I am a dancer. Japan is and will always be my home country. Still, I cannot pray for its victory, not when my friends here have relatives at war._

_The other day I met Mila (she's one of Vitya's friend, to refresh your memory) whose brother has just been sent with the other troops where the war scene is unwinding. Though I want to believe miss Milla will not consider me an enemy for my country's choice, I could not avoid noticing a certain coldness coming from her._

_It is now more than ever I feel I do not belong. My apologies if I repeat myself._

_I feel alone, which is utterly ridiculous, as I spent years here with no friend or ally. Yet, Victor changed everything. Curious how last year, in this same period, he was a distant dream, barely aware of my existence, and now he writes saying he misses me after a few days apart. The feeling is mutual. As long as I am with him I feel home, no matter where I am._

_Is this what true love feels like? The thing that makes you want to spend your life with someone?_

_Sorry, I am rambling and it is getting late. I pray I am exaggerating my worries concerning the Alien Office._

_I kiss and hug you all._

_Love,_

_Your brother_

_***_

The Alien Office was an ambient with which Yuuri was familiar. The day he arrived in St. Petersburg, Oleg Vladimirovič had accompanied him, but for all the following years Yuuri always visited the Office alone. Normally it was a once-in-a-year visit, in January, to renovate his residence permit. One day, if he ever wanted to leave the country, he would have to ask for his passport back at the same office.

He hadn't imagined it would happen this way,

Yuuri watched the officer beyond the desk, searching for a sign indicating the situation at hand was nothing but a joke. He pondered asking for a glass of water, but he wasn't sure to be able to swallow it. A single word echoed in his mind, repeated in both French, Russian and English for maximum understanding,

"Expulsion?" Yuuri repeated, hands wringing in his lap. A cold sweat beaded his palms in no time. Set on the desk, right before his eyes, were his passport and a paper ordering his immediate leaving the country. It was the freedom to move but conceded in the cruellest way.

The announce wasn't a complete novelty. Just the day before, he had expressed a similar fear in his last letter to Mari, which he had mailed before going to the Alien Office; still, no amount of picturing the worst scenario could prepare him to it actually taking form. A nebulous fear turned into reality and it was all the more terrifying.

His brain struggled to process the situation.

"It's for the security of our country," the officer was explaining. He pronounced that our in a way that left no doubt on Yuuri's exclusion from the category. "I'm sure you heard how your country," - the officer emphasized the pronoun, "attacked our navy. You're a wild car, I'm afraid."

Yuuri didn't answer or say anything for that matter. He slowly lifted his head from the table surface to the officer's face, his hands damp with sticky sweat.

"You know I never caused any problem!" he dared to protest with a soft voice, words hitching in his throat. "For six years I tried my best to be a good citizen -"

"You aren't a citizen."

"A good resident. I've done everything I could."

"Yes, you did," the officer conceded and for a moment Yuuri believed to see a flicker of uncertainty his eyes, but it soon disappear behind the mask of bureaucracy, "Still, I received orders. There is nothing I can do."

It was difficult to speak, as a deep feeling of betrayal killed each word in Yuuri's mouth. "How soon do I have to leave?"

Yuuri thought about Victor, blissfully in Moscow, who would return in two days and how, maybe, he could manage to convince the competent authority to not force him out of the country. Victor could speak on his behalf if only Yuuri had some more time.

"As soon as possible."

"I have loose ends to close. The theatre, packing ... A couple days would be useful," Yuuri said, fingers tormenting the hem of his shirt under the table. The silence was so heavy Yuuri feared the officer could hear the frantic beating of his heart.

"We can grant you two days."

Yuuri thanked him in a choked blabbering, while he gathered his documents with trembling hands. He stood on legs feeling a little wobbly, a strange hum in his ears. 

For a moment he had the feeling he wouldn’t be able to exit the room. His sweaty hand left a sticky print on the door handle. The little relief from discovering the door opened without a problem was short-lived. There was a policeman standing in wait, so close Yuuri almost crashed against him. He instinctively glanced back toward the office only to find the door had closed behind him. The horrible, dreaded feeling of having just escaped a trap to being escorted into a new one mounted inside Yuuri’s guts. His muscles went rigid as if he were on the edge of a cliff trying his best to not fall.

"Yuuri Katsuki?" the policeman said, voice questioning, as soon as he noticed Yuuri; if ever, it was the final blow for any residual hope the policeman wasn’t there for him.

"I have received orders to accompany you home," the policeman insisted, stepping forward. He was now close enough Yuuri could smell the cabbage in his breath. He placed a hand on the small of Yuuri’s back, sending a shiver down to his toes.

"It’s normal procedure."

Yuuri knitted his brows together. In all the previous times he visited the Alien Office, whether for the annual residence permit renovation or minor issues, never had he had seen someone been escorted by the police. It only make the current occurrence an extraordinary event, something outside the normal scheme of things; something special just for him, the stranger, the enemy.

Yuuri swallowed, still not taking a single step. If he had to hold on to any positive sign, the policeman hadn’t dragged him away yet. Maybe, like a tiny, feeble voice in Yuuri’s head suggested, if they wanted to arrest him for whatever unknown reason, they would’ve already done it. Arbitrary arrests were sadly famous in the country. It was a hope weak as the flickering flame of a dying candle.

On the one side they had been kind enough to concede him a few days to prepare his leaving and set the loosed ends he had in St. Petersburg. On the other, they had placed a policeman to assure he didn't do anything suspicious.

 

The push on his back became more insisting. Yuuri resigned to move, hoping the impact at the end of the fall wouldn’t be excessively hard.

He and the policeman haven’t reached the palace exit yet when, as they passed through the main hall, another man peeled off the wall against which he was lazing. In a few strides, he came to stand before them. He was surprisingly young.

"Serik," the first policeman acknowledged the new presence.

"Anatoly," Serik replied. "I see they gave you work to do. Always better than spending a whole day in an office," he considered out loud. "How’s your family?"

The utterly normality of the question hit Yuuri like a blade of sunlight, as the world had turned upside down yet again.

"Could be better. Little Annushka has flu," Anatoly replied, rushing Yuuri to move. "I’m sorry, but I can really stop for a chat."

Anatoly's fingers curled around Yuuri’s shirt cloth in a tighter grip, making him seriously doubt no danger lie in wait around the corner. It was also true Russian policemen didn’t shine for kindness of manners. In front of him, the Alien Office door looked here the entrance to Hell, there its exit.

 

Serik sided them, his pace complementing theirs. "It’s a pity." For a moment Yuuri had the impression Serik addressed a smile in his direction. When he checked a second time, though, the man was nothing but serious.

"You should go home," Serik added, as they finally crossed the threshold of the Alien Office entrance. A rush of cold air hit Yuuri’s’ face in a march’ late afternoon. Serik glanced meaningfully at a pharmacy shop they had just surpassed. Anatoly stopped right under the pharmacy banner. As his eyes scanned the jars and boxes on the shelves beyond the front glass, Yuuri felt like a pound was about to be lifted from his shoulders, but if it was for the better or to crash back again, he didn’t know. That was the worst part. The uneasiness was cutting deep in his stomach, accompanied by a lingering sense of nausea at the back of his mouth. Yuuri hadn’t to check to know a thin layer of icy sweat had covered his skin, sticky and smelling like fear. There was something more in Serik and Anatoly discussion than for the eyes to see, something elusive and not being able to catch it up only sent Yuuri unbalanced. It all mixed with the already present sadness for the still fresh expulsion order. For a moment his vision became blurry.

Then, all the experience accumulated in years of being on stage hit Yuuri hard with the sudden understanding Serik was playing a part. If he was a saviour or a worse option, it was left to doubt.

"Go home, I’ll cover you. I insist!"

Yuuri’s trained ear didn’t miss the shift in Serik’s voice, the lower note to suggest Anatoly was better to accept the offering or there would be unpleasant consequences. As if Serik’s words were a magical formula, the pressure on Yuuri’s back eased.

"Alright, I trust you," Anatoly huffed.

"Good choice."

If Yuuri had had the vague impression that something was wrong, present since the moment he found a guard ready to escort him home and blossomed with Serik’s sudden appearance, he got the final confirmation both in Serik’s words and gestures. At the first street intersection, Yuuri veered left, the memory so well embedded in his feet he could walk home blind, but Serik yanked him back. He muttered a couple imprecations for the eventual bystanders to hear.

"Keep up the scene," he whispered through gritted teeth against Yuuri's nape and pushed him into the right turn. "They are following you. Now walk and don't look back," he added.

"Why should I believe you?" Yuuri replied, dodging hula-hoop rolling down the street and the kid who came running behind. Bubbling adrenaline was slowly building in his veins, popping out questions at the same rate of bubbles when water boiled. For all he knew, Serik could be one of them and Yuuri was consigning himself in the wolf's cave.

"Do you think I would make all this mess if I wanted to arrest you?"

"No. Is Serik your name?"

"No. I’m Otabek, Otabek Altin. My pleasure."

Altin guided Yuuri through a series of turns and alley. They changed courses and occasionally went in-and-out from clubs to mingle with the crowd. At a certain point, he had divested his police uniform for civilian clothes, pushed a beret on Yuuri's head and exchanged his glasses for a different pair, which left him seeing anything.

They had walked for more than an hour and still, they hadn't reached wherever Altin was guiding Yuuri; nor he seemed inclined in explaining in details what was happening, leaving Yuuri with the knowledge he was free to neither believe nor trust him, but then he would have to face the eventual consequences. At some point, Altin had asked Yuuri if he had answered the letter from his sister yet - "Were you controlling me?" "for your own good" - and muttered some kind of imprecation Yuuri was sure not being Russian when the answer was affirmative. Connecting the invisible dots, it would've been better if Yuuri had continued the tradition of waiting six months for making his family know he was still alive and well and hadn't died in the meanwhile while thousands of kilometres away. With the Trans-Siberian and the new technologies, the excuse of the slow postal service had stopped working.

I was just writing to my family!"

"Yes, a wonderful excuse. Here!"

Altin slid open an anonymous door, walked a couple flight of stairs and opened another door. A principle of a headache was blooming in between Yuuri's eyes for the wrong glasses and he lost no time in throwing them on the first surface available.

"It's about time!" a new voice arrived, soon followed by the owner in full body. It was a voice Yuuri knew well and would never expect to find here and there.

"Yura?" Yuuri exclaimed so hastily saliva almost choked him. He coughed and apologised.

"What are you doing here? Can someone explain to me what's going on?" he continued, voice still calm, all in all, courtesy of year of emotional conditioning. Yuri and Altin exchanged a glance.

"Come," Yuri grumbled, twirling on his heels. Yuuri found no choice but to follow him to a small kitchen, where he sat at the table while other set up the water to boil in the samovar.

"Now," he ordered climbing on a chair to reach the tea box on a high pantry shelf, "listen."

Moments later Yuuri had his hands curled around a steaming cup of tea, tightly as if it was his only life-saver in a crazy world. His eyes kept twitching from Yura to Altin and back waiting for the moment someone would reveal the fact to be nothing but a well-elaborated joke. Yuuri risked dying from choking the second time that evening. By the time Altin had finished his recap of the recent events, Yuuri had forgotten how to breathe. 

"A spy?" he repeated forcing every letter. The Okhrana [3] believed him to be a spy. The Okhrana was after him. The Okhrana may already be ready to knock at his door to twist his thread of life ahead of time. An impetuous river of questions spiralled in his mind; they pressed against his lips, so overwhelming Yuuri couldn't utter a single one. Hot tea burnt his tongue. 

He let go of the cup with a startle, sending ceramic to crash against the floor.

"Stay there!" Yuri blocked him mid-way on standing up to tend to the mess. "Don't move. I’ll take care of this. Gosh, of all the times," he groaned, brushing away shards. 

"Was the guard at the Alien Office part of this?" Yuuri returned his attention to Altin. "Was him part of a plan?"

There the feeling of wrongness had put roots in his stomach. Nausea gripped Yuuri's throat with the sudden realization of a danger lying above his head like a Damocles’ sword.

"No, he was nothing but a pawn in the system."

Yuuri sagged in his chair and pressed a hand to his mouth, in the back of which the taste of fear still lingered, acid and bitter.

"But we know for sure some of them have links with the Alien Office," Yuri reprised throwing a wet rag in the kitchen sink. He rested his back against the chair only to jolt up soon afterwards. The room was small, but it didn't impede Yuri from pacing around the table, a nervous feline whose body conveyed his inner emotions with crystalline clearance.

"How many days did they give you?"

"Two."

"And you believe them," Yuri sighed with a shaking of his head, mouth falling open and hands curling around an invisible neck. "They lied. Or if they don't, they gave the Okhrana the perfect opportunity" - he crossed his arms on his chest, uncrossed them, pointed a finger in Yuuri's direction - "Not that they need it, but just imagine. They found you around with an expulsion order on your head and no justification will save you from a one-ticket journey to some forgotten place in Siberia," he concluded, curling his middle finger to underline the last point.

"No."

Yuuri grabbed the table edge, a dizzy sensation rushing over his whole body. It couldn't be. He couldn't leave, not all of sudden. Not without having warned Victor, who was still in Moscow, counting the hours till his return, blissfully unaware of what was happening. Calling on the phone or sending a telegram would be too dangerous. It took Yuuri a single look to Yuri and Altin to understand that much.

"I can't. I have to meet with Vitya," he insisted, voice feeble over a forced smile. A nervous laugh escaped his lips, a hiccup of incredulity. There was a buzz in his ears. It impeded him from hearing clearly.

He sucked up a troubled breath. Every plan made for the week or for the following months flashed before his staring eyes, how he should've met with Victor at the station and how Victor would coax him in spending a whole day together to tell how much he missed him. There was a choreography buzzing in his head since the beginning of the month, which was little by little coming together, and he may gather enough courage to show Victor.

In a matter of months they should've taken a little vacation in Switzerland, with a possible quick visit to Italy. Now Yuuri didn't know when or if he would be able to return to St. Petersburg. Victor's presence had made the city a second home for him. _Home is where the heart is_ , the saying went.

He pressed his fists against his closed eyes enough for colourful spots to dance behind his eyelids, running back to a few days prior when he and Victor had talked about how nice a good travel somewhere away would be. They had kissed in a haste at the station and Victor had waved his hand outside the window until the train had become nothing more than a dot in the distance. Yuuri had found it almost exaggerated, smiling softly for how Victor treated a week-long journey as a lifelong farewell. If only they both had known, but not even the suspect had touched their minds.

"Oh."

Tears pricked at the corner of Yuuri's eyes.

"Please, don't cry!" Yuri lamented, digging his pockets for a handkerchief, which he threw to Yuuri across the table.

It wasn't the time for tears. Yuuri squinted his eyes shut and counted slowly to ten like he did before certain shows when he needed to regain his composure. The blow had been hard and made the world shift, things happening around Yuuri without him having any control over their development, but he had the resources to face them.

"I need to get my things," was the first subject he addressed. The few rubles he had on him would be enough only for a train ticket and few things more.

"We sent a person to take them. He should be back any time now," 'Yuri dismissed the indignant noise that reached him, Yuuri's concern and obvious discomfort over the violation of his privacy clear. Nobody had ever been allowed in his apartment, not even Victor. The room flashed before Yuuri's eyes, with all the details he added throughout the years to transform an anonymous place into a home; the collection of Victor memorabilia in the bedside table drawer, the picture of Amaterasu from the little altar in a corner of his room, the rare sepias photos of Hasetsu and his family. The wooden box under the mattress where he conserved his savings.

"In the meanwhile, you should take this," Altin intervened, sliding a passport to him. Yuuri opened it feeling his eyebrows knitting together in a deep frown. "Temir A." he read aloud the name of the person the passport to which should belong. 

"Who is he?"

"A no one," Altin explained, "the man in the photo was a distant cousin of mine."

"Was?"

"He died in an accident last year."

Yuuri studied the photo, front teeth playing nervously with his lower lip. Altin’s cousin had the same almond-shaped eyes as him. Under a careless examination, with a bit of luck, and some proper arrangements in disguise, Yuuri could pass to be him.

"It can’t work!" he said, letting go of the passport. "They'll never believe it."

"They will. Find a way. Invent some excuse for your accent or anything. Maybe you won't have to use it!"

Yuri's scolding was interrupted by a rhythmic knock on the front door. He jolted to open. "Yes, thanks!" Yuuri heard him say before the door being slammed again.

"There, your things!" Yuri dropped a soft bundle on the table. Yuuri scooped it up and peered inside, recognising a couple of western style clothes to change into, his toiletry set, pretty much all his savings and, surprisingly, the katsumori from Mari. No sign of Victor’s letters, Mari’s letters or holy images.

"Come," Yuri recalled his attention, "the next train to the border will leave at ten. I'll help you pack. Beka will accompany you. You have your own passport and documents, right?"

Yuuri nodded. It seemed ages since he had received them back, only a few hours earlier.

***

**__** _My dearest, Vitya,_

_Circumstances outside of my control oblige me to leave Russia at once. God knows if I wish to have time to explain myself or to say goodbye in person, but the time is little and Yura is already tugging me by the sleeve so that I put the pen down. I confide he will explain things in details. I have to confess I am afraid of the situation, but I must be strong._

_I will write to you as soon as I have the possibility._

_With love,_

_Yuuri_

Yuri snatched the quill from Yuuri's hand as soon as he signed the message, causing a big drop of ink to fall on the paper and partly on the table. He pulled Yuuri on his feet uncomplimentary, shoved Yuuri's coat and freshly made briefcase in his arms, and pushed him toward the door without a further hesitation.

"Will you explain things to Vitya?" Yuuri asked over his shoulder.

"Yes, of course!"

Yuri shut the door in his face. Yuuri turned to Altin and followed him in the street.

***

"You are too rigid!" Altin muttered to Yuuri under his breath.

Warsaw Station was a bedlam of bodies in frenzy under the cold lamppost lights, voices shouting over the machines' thundering noise. Yuuri had his head ducked to hide his face, under Altin's advice, and was elbowing his way through the crowd to the ticket office. His left hand was secured around the briefcase handle.

"I am a danseur. I cannot help it!" he replied, twisting his torso with grace to avoid colliding with a couple of freshly arrived British tourists. "Finally!"

He rushed to the queue lining before the ticket office, not helping frantically watching around in fear something was wrong. Altin's recent words echoed strong and clear in his mind, nourishing his fears.

"Katsuki!" Altin recalled his attention. Yuuri startled, stretching his neck to peer at the start of the queue and count how many people were still ahead of him.

"What?"

"I must leave you now. My presence may put you in danger."

Four more people left. Yuuri felt his sweaty palms becoming cold in the night air. With his mouth dry he found it difficult to talk, breath shortcoming and troubled. Still, it was not the time to panic, nor the best moment to forget how to manage alone.

"Yes," he admitted, eyes glued to the queue. In haste he grabbed Altin's arm, intending to ask him to write to Mari if something negative ever happened to him, but instead, he said: "How, how will I write to Vitya, if I'm controlled?"

"I put all the instruction in a pocket of your coat," Altin assured, setting his arm free with a tug. Moments after he disappeared into the moving crowd. Yuuri's attention was drawn by the ticket officer.

A ticket third class for Verzbolovo," he asked, digging his pocket for the money.

"Going to the border, I see. With a couchette?"

"No," Yuuri answered.

"Well, then a third-class ticket for Verzbolovo. Have a pleasant journey."

Yuuri nodded, not yet daring to breathe. 

The inside of the train was as chaotic as expected, with coats, hats, and other personal belonging scattered around with no logic if not to occupy the most space possible. Yuuri elbowed his way through the whole wagon, passing the last second class seats up to arrive at where the third class began. The chaos on the train seemed to have reached its maximum level, not caused anymore by the idle arrogance of the rich, but out of the amount of people. Anticipating a long, possibly painstakingly slow journey, the passengers had arranged as to replicate a home-like living as much as possible. 

Noise filled the ears, the ticket inspector's yells, the people's last shouted farewells, the train's blows, and the rumbling of the machines coming to life. A voice announced the imminent leaving. The usual mixing of people coughing, chatting, crying, or cursing soon turned into a background noise in the night of Varshavsky Station [4]. The train whistle blew again.

Yuuri found his assumed seat occupied by a birdcage inside of which a fancy, bright yellow canary screamed in outrage for the situation at hand. Right next to it, an old man was dozing with his cheek against the fogged window. Yuuri leaned forward to put a hand on the man's shoulder and shook it gently. 

"Yes, of course," he muttered, retrieving the cage and placing it on his knees, not before having pulled out a large and handkerchief to cover the canary. The bird calmed down in no time.

"Thanks."

Yuuri raised on the demi-pointe to secure his hand case in the luggage space, the gesture feeling no more real than the others. On the contrary, his brain had yet to understand and process what was happening, the change in the routine too abrupt to be fully accepted. For a moment Yuuri was tempted to jump down the train, wondering what may happen if he ever asked the Nikiforov or the Babichev or maybe even the Plisetsky for help and asylum. Discarding the plan, he caressed the idea of exchanging his ticket for a Transiberian one to finally going home. Maybe Mari was right and it was about time for Yuuri to do so.

Instead, he flopped down on his seat, stretching out his neck to peer the yellowish-lit station outside the window. The whistle blew one last time, as wheels, pistons, and cylinders went into motion. Yuuri folded his coat in his lap and checked his pendant was well-hidden behind the shirt, feeling like showing it would attract unwanted attention. He wrapped his arms around the coat, mindful of all the words Altin told him; reminding himself in which pocket the false passport was, and when use it.

Yuuri was lost. Not only the expulsion order was forcing him to leave the country immediately, but Altin was convinced him being targeted by the Okhrana for unknown reasons. The thought brought Yuuri to jerk his head from side to side in fear of being followed. The light snoring at his side communicated the old man with the canary had returned to sleep, innocuous as only an old, fragile man can be. Still, in looking at him, Yuuri couldn't suppress the idea it was all a façade, soon the stranger would reveal his true identity and arrest him. In the end, however, tiredness won over him. 

When he opened his eyes, it was still deep dark outside the train window and the seat next to him was empty. Yuuri pinched the bridge of his nose, slipping a finger under his glasses lenses to rub the grogginess from his eyes and kept an ear out to try understanding where was the train. There was an eerie silence in the wagon, most of the people still asleep in the heaviness of a Russian night. 

Yuuri stretched his arms above the head and curled his toes in the shoes. The movement sent a jolt of electricity through his entire leg, all pins-and-needles for having stood still so long. Eventually, he surged to his feet and walked some space down the corridor caring to maintain a light step.

"Good idea! I didn't want to repeat all the acrobatics I had to do to not wake you up!" the old man **,** who apparently hadn't left the train yet, commented. All in all, it seemed like either Yuuri hadn't missed his station or both he and the old man had. 

"Where are we?" Yuuri asked suppressing a yawn and stepping aside to let the old man pass. He sat down and encircled his legs with arms, placing his head on the knees.

"Almost at Daugavpils. Almost my stop."

"Daugavpils?" Yuuri repeated, trying to keep his voice tone as neutral as possible, the city vaguely familiar. The old man nodded. "Yes. I’m returning home, going to Poland."

The information rang something in Yuuri’s brain. He stood silent, but chaos exploded in his mind. It became a swirl of confusing thoughts: there wasn’t just one-way to reach the border, but the unclear path ahead of him made every option no better than the others. 

By continuing the journey up to the border in Verzbolovo he would avoid the extra costs coming with railways changes and save time. Still, if truly someone was tracking him, it was the most obvious option. The passport control at the border looked like a well-wined trap, whose springs were ready to snap around the prey. Yuuri pushed his glasses back and pressed the heels of the hands against his closed eyes in the desperate search for an answer or a sign of what to do, feeling as lost as when he left his home for the first time.

Outside the window the landscape continued to race. 

"I think I’ll go to Warsaw too," Yuuri came to a solution some hours later. To his surprise, the old man not only smiled his approving but also grabbed gently Yuuri by the sleeve and invited him to stay close. Yuuri was tired, the little sleep he had made him agitated, and maybe it was for that he decided to trust the stranger. He thought a man with a canary could not have evil intentions. While buying a new ticket, the old man presented him as the nephew of a dear friend and once again Lady Luck give them her kiss of blessing. 

***

"In about an hour will be in Warsaw. What will you do from there?" the old manaccommodated better in his seat, sticking a stout finger through the cage bars for the canary to kindly nibble at it. Yuuri threw his head back on the seat, pain in eyes for the air dryness and the erratic sleep. Sun was lowering on the horizon, soon to set behind it and he had by now on a train for almost twenty-four hours, the prolonged immobility harsh on his body. For the first time in years, Yuuri had spent a whole day with neither dancing nor stretching.

"I have to cross the border. I'll see from there," he answered in a voice barely louder than the sound of a breath, in fear of prying ears ready to eavesdrop, and refraining any more details because of a mix of natural reservation and carefulness.

"We should go down the train separately," the old man suggested with no sign of wanting to press Yuuri further in the description of his plans, which were in truth hazy like a blurred city through the fog in deep winter.

"Thanks for the advice."

Indeed, when the train halted in Warszawa Wilenska station, the old man lost no time in grabbing his luggage and canary and making his way down the train corridor to the exit, where he soon disappeared in the crowd. Yuuri, instead, waited until the majority of passengers had already got down before grabbing his suitcase and throwing himself into the chaos of yet another station. A gust of wind shuffled through his hair, enough for him to lift his coat lapels and shrug a little in his shoulders, head low. He moved away from the platform where the gigantic locomotive waited to be prepared for another journey, eyes darting around to find the exit or any useful signal to how to continue his travel. Eventually, being Warszawa Wilenska a terminal, he resigned in to follow the rest of the people.

Once outside and on the other side of the station, as travellers sorted each to their destination, Yuuri stood on the last steps of the little marble stair leading inside. He looked at the busy street, the coming and going of pedestrians, some with their luggage and other barehanded, as well as carriages and cabs.

From Yuuri's position, the tramline was also well visible with its red-coloured trams led by horses, lights flashing in the darkening evening. A considerable number of just arrived travellers jumped in them, luggage in hand and clothes ruffled from the journey. They didn't have the look of someone who would set down for a while before leaving again. On the contrary, Yuuri had the impression Warsaw was just a stop in between a start and an end; the same as it was for him. With the only difference that they knew what to do or where to go, while he worried about the next step and felt suspicious at every glance directed at him. If the situation had been any different he would've breathed in the air and the novelty, pleasing in being in a different city as he strolled around; but this time he was a chased man with an order of expulsion on his head and Warsaw was just another city in the Russian Empire, despite the city architecture and the way people spoke could almost give a different impression. 

In a surge of initiative, Yuuri approached the first person who exited the front station door, asking, "Where is it going?", pointing at a new group of people jumping on the tram.

The stranger turned his head on the other side and snatched his arm free with a sharp movement, blabbering about how inconsiderate people have become. The second person with whom Yuuri tried to interact was kinder.

"I'm not sure about all," the woman answered with an accented Russian, "but that way there is the Dworzec Wiedeński?"

"Dworzec Wiedeński?" Yuuri parroted back, his tongue twisting around the foreign word as he threw sideways glances to the new approaching tram.

"The station where the trains to Vienna leave," the woman explained. Hearing the new city name Yuuri's mind began spinning again. He hastily thanked the woman and rushed to the tram, jumping swiftly on board.

Half an hour later Yuuri was sitting on a bench in Dworzec Wiedeński, his suitcase held tight between his calves and his nose immersed in a local newspaper, of which he didn't understand a word, but at least gave him something to do. On his lap was a by then cooled and half-eaten pączek, oily to the touch and filled with a sticky strawberry jam, he had bought in a bakery near the station with his stomach growling in hunger. In his pocket was a one-go, third-class, ticket to Granica, for a train who would arrive in a few minutes, according to the timetables hung in the station. For whoever would ask him the documents, Yuuri was Temir A., a man of Kazakh origins going to visit a long distant relative.

As soon as he crossed the border, he would get rid of the false identity, trusting the protection of being in a city outside the Russian empire and the Tsar control. His heart leapt in his chest at the thought of all the shortcomings deriving from such an arrangement.

He ruffled his bangs back from his eyes, blaming himself for not having been a little more attentive about the relationship between European countries and, most important, between those countries and Japan. 

It was the third train Yuuri took since he had left St. Petersburg and the border between dream and reality were starting to get blurry, the liminal space sending cold tendrils of uneasiness to brush under his clothes. It was an in between. 

Yuuri boarded the train with a heavy step and red, tired eyes, sagging in his seat with a single, swift movement. He crossed his arms over his chest and fixed his sight outside the window. 

***

The moment when passengers were made get off the train at the border for the usual passport and customs control arrived too soon for Yuuri's liking. Both Austrian and Russian guards moved in the station, checking passports with efficiency, dealing with fussy travellers. He tried to swallow but his mouth had gone completely dry. Behind his eyelids were still the side effects of the last, troubled nap, which made him feel number than rested, and tension was tormenting his body. On top of that during the last portion of the journey, he had heard a conversation with someone expressing doubts if a visa was still needed to enter the Austro-Hungarian Empire. He hoped with all his might it wasn't the truth, as otherwise, he would be the end for him.

Just as much if they ever discovered he had travelled with a false document, which was now being examined by a Russian guard. Yuuri had chosen on purpose the longest queue in the hope the guard would grow increasingly tired and less attentive the more people passed under his control. Surprisingly enough, it was working, but Yuuri didn't dare to breathe. At the same time, he couldn't appear excessively on edge.

"Coming from Almaty, I see!" the guard commented. Yuuri cursed the gods in his mind.

"Yes," he muttered, in a low voice. The less he spoke, the less his accent would raise suspects. At most he could use the tiredness as an excuse.

"Must be a long journey."

Yuuri nodded "A long journey indeed. But very pleasant, I have to say."

"Yes? Good to know. Well," - Yuuri held his breath -" it seems all in order. Have a good day. Next!"

Yuuri took the passport back from the guard hand, thanked in haste, and elbowed his way to the Austrian customs control. Cold sweat was beading his nape and the bridge of his nose, enough for his glasses to slide on it. Yuuri adjusted them with a quick gesture of the hand, zig-zagging in the crowd. Inside he repeated he had nothing to worry about, as he was so far away from St. Petersburg and nobody there knew his face.

"Passport, please!" the Austrian border guard snapped Yuuri back to attention. He handed again the false passport, praying silently it was the last time he had to use the document. 

"Anything to declare?" the guard continued, eyes still stuck on the passport. Yuuri shook his head.

"Playing cards? Alcohol? Tobacco?" 

"Nothing," Yuuri replied and the brief examination of his luggage did only confirm his good faith. He went cold rigid as the guard rummaged through his belongings, but they were mostly clothes and nothing to hide.

"Well, I see it’s all in order. Welcome to Austria. Have a nice day. Next!"

Granica was a border city and well equipped to accommodate travellers. Yuuri paid a night accommodation and, in the darkness of the room, burnt the false passport as to not leave any traces behind. He fell asleep to a nightmarish dream the moment he touched the pillow. The morning after he changed clothes and, as Yuuri Katsuki, took the first train that would conduct him to Vienna. 

***

_Dear Christophe,_

_I hope this letter find you in good health. Last time I heard about you, courtesy of Vitya, you were doing well, thus I suppose a few weeks were not enough to change the situation._

_Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for me. On the contrary, I found myself in times I could say of trouble, though I would prefer not to go into details for safety sake._

_Forgive me if I cut to the chase, but I am in the condition of not having a stable home or knowing what to do, for that matter, and I was wondering if I could make use of your hospitality for some days, the needed time to find again a direction in life._

_I would be extremely grateful if you could lend me your hand. I can assure I will pay the debt with time._

_Sincerely,_

_Yuuri K._

It was around six in the morning when Yuuri wrote the letter, sat at the secretary in the room he had rented in a bed & breakfast in the outskirts of Vienna a few days prior. For the money spent, it was a lovely accommodation and the company was good. 

The air outside was pleasantly crisp and the temperature, despite cold, held the promise of a warm afternoon. Yuuri yawned and stretched his arms above his head, pushing the chair back with a counter pressure of the feet against the wooden pavement. He retrieved his ballet slippers from under the bed, a pair of pants, and a sweater his slip over his nightdress to warm his still cold muscles. He went to stand next to the small window, outside, which was a still empty flower bed, and put a hand against the glass, feet in first position. Being technically out of Mariinsky company, for the time being, was no justification for lazing around and putting a stop to the regime of training he had followed for years.

Besides, Yuuri found the repetitive movements of the training routine soothing, a nice tool to keep his worries at bay. It gave the calming illusion of a routine, providing him with the idea of having at least still something under his control. Rotating his right leg from the hip for a series of battements, he thought about Victor and what he was probably doing at the moment. As Russia was an hour ahead, he would probably be having breakfast or getting ready for another day at Mariinsky, training, polishing the roles for the season. By then, Victor would be informed of the recent events and advised to wait for Yuuri to write. It was something Yuuri didn't feel safe enough yet to do. 

An hour later, Yuuri was fully awake, mind and body. He washed the sweat on his torso with a wet towel, dressed up and headed to the dining room for breakfast. On the way, he stopped by the reception where he handed the letter, underlying it was of a certain importance. He paid the price for the service and the stamp.

"We are early birds!" a young man greeted him on the way.

"Hi, Emil."

Yuuri smiled at the Prague student. Despite having met just a few days prior, Emil treated him already like a friend, never losing an occasion to invite him to hang out. As he said, it was a pity to stay all day in the hotel. Yuuri declined each time. It was too dangerous.

A few days later, when Yuuri left for good, Emil wished him the best. Yuuri reciprocated with the surreal feeling of when saying goodbye to an almost stranger, knowing their ways would never cross again. 

He bought a ticket for Geneva the very same day, a letter from the Giacometti in his pocket as proof he would find a safe harbour there.

 

_Mr Katsuki,_

_my son is in Milan at the moment, training for the new ballet season. Nonetheless, he had already talked to me about you, more than once, and I do not see any impediments as to offer you hospitality in times of needs._

_Mr Giacometti_

*******

The Giacometti's house was an eighteenth-century style villa situated on the lake banks, opposite to the city centre. A vast meadow surrounded the property and a wood stood proudly on the backside. It took an hour stroll down the street to reach the city for the daily commissions.

Usually the Giacometti's housemaid walked the road twice a day, in the morning to buy the daily bread for breakfast and in the late afternoon. She woke up so early that at seven she was already back. It hadn't taken long before Yuuri started to accompany her, at least in the afternoon, insisting he didn't want to impose. He said he would use the hospitality to decide where to go or what to do and after two weeks it was time he rolled up his sleeves. First, writing some letters of reference to send to all the major theatres in Europe would be a good start. In the meanwhile, Yuuri also decided to take walks to clear up his mind.

It was a Wednesday afternoon when he and Miss Reist, came across a postman walking up the hill with a fast pace and forehead beaded in sweat. He carried a single, small letter and since it wasn't the hour of day during which mail was usually delivered, Miss Reist couldn't refrain from asking what that and for whom it was.

"A telegram from a certain," The postman turned the envelope in his hand, " Mr Victor Nikiforov. All the way from Russia. For a certain," - the man frowned and bring the envelope closer to his eyes to better read the name of the receiver, - "Yuuri Katsuki," he concluded, almost spelling the same. He lifted his head and looked Miss Reist first and Yuuri second, who in the short span of time had lost the entire colour from his cheek. Katsuki was neither a common name nor a European one, and Yuuri's features corresponding to a similar description. If Switzerland weren’t a neutral state, he would have shown his face around even less than he already did.

"Don't tell me it's you!" the postman exclaimed in the end, shifting eyes from the Yuuri to the name on the envelope and back. Yuuri nodded frantically, the letter inviting like water for a man lost in the desert.

"Yes, please, I would be glad if you give me the message!" he prayed, right hand twitching on thin air.

"Gladly. Less walking for me! Well, have a good day!"

Yuuri tore the envelope open as soon as it was in his hands, nails fighting with the paper to free the message inside in blind impatience.

_My darling, my sweet Yuuri,_

_God knows if I would like to exchange place with this letter_

_It is a relief to know about your whereabouts after almost a month spent worrying, thinking of you lost in Europe. Not that I do not believe you perfectly capable of moving around by yourself - forgive me - but I could not help but feel a little preoccupied._

_I am coming there as soon as I can. My love, do not widen your eyes and wave your hands, saying you are not worth it. I can assure you it is not true. Besides, in all modesty, I am one the best danseur in the world, finding a company will not be a problem._

_I trust that when this letter will be in your hand, I’ll be only a week from you. Then, we will go from there._

_With all my love,_

_Vitya_

“Bad news?"

Yuuri denied with a shake of the head, putting the letter away in a jacket's pocket. It was curious how a piece of paper so small could feel so heavy.

"I wasn't expecting any letters, that's all," Yuuri muttered, walking on the shadowed side of the road. For sure, he hadn't written anything to St. Petersburg in fear of being caught or of having his post controlled by someone. He should've consigned a message to a friend of Otabek once crossed the border in Verzbolovo, but having changed route, the plan had blown. Before leaving St. Petersburg Yuuri had assured Victor he would write to him as soon as he felt safe enough, but the concept of safety was very different with an undefined menace on his traces. Plus, if Victor would've ever got into trouble because of him, Yuuri could never forgive himself. He had little doubts, though, on whom may have done it on his behalf.

"Miss Reist, do you know if Mr Giacometti notified his son of my arrival?" he asked, picking up the pace with the housemaid. The unplanned chat with the postman had made them lose more time than expected.

"Yes. Mr Giacometti called Christophe the day after your arrival. Why?"

"Nothing, just a curiosity."

Thus Chris had warned Victor and now Victor had all the intentions of coming to Geneva. Yuuri knew Victor well enough to don't even think of being able to make him change his mind, all more if it was something dangerous. He bent over, picked up a stone from the road, and made it jump in his palm. Admitting that Victor would reunite with him for real, there was the incognita of the after. Victor could say whatever he liked, but Yuuri would not allow him to renounce a shining career for love. It wasn't worth it.

He wasn't worth it.

Nonetheless, the surprises hadn't ended yet. Few days after having received Victor's letter, another mail required his attention, with the Opera admitting the possibility of an available space in their company. Apparently, Yuuri's performance the last Autumn had not come unnoticed either from non-Russian theatres. The message specified that any final decision would be subject to an audition to be done the sooner possible. 

He threw the letter on the kitchen table and sagged against the chair with a deep sigh. Miss Reist who was tending to the lunch, hummed sympathetically. 

"Still no news from your friend?"

"Unfortunately no. I know I have to be patient, but it's been almost a week and I don't want to impose any longer," Yuuri answered, not even bothering to correct the woman because word choice was the last of his problems at the moment.

Especially when, out of luck born from the gods' benevolence, one of the best ballet company in the world was willing to give him a chance. Yuuri pressed his hands against his closed eyelids, brow furrowed in the attempt of taking a difficult choice. For all he knew, it could still take days, if not weeks, before Victor could reach Geneva, which would mean renounce to the job opportunity, while at the same time exploiting the Giacometti's generous hospitality. On the other hand, going to France would mean complicating his reunion with Victor, being Paris big enough for anyone to disappear in its streets and palaces.

Yuuri swallowed, taking a sip from the cup of hot tea Miss Reist had prepared in the meanwhile.

France was also allied with Russia if his memory wasn't playing tricks on him, something, which made the country, not the safest place in Yuuri's current situation. 

A couple days later, there was still no news whatsoever from Victor. If he had sent any letters, they must have gotten lost somewhere. There was a telephone down in town and several times Yuuri was tempted to pick it up and compose Victor’s number, but every time fear made him put the speaker down. He called Chris instead, only to discover the Nikiforov’s house telephone had stop working

By then he had been a guest in the Giacometti household for a month and with no sign of any news from Victor is sight, he felt it was time to take his leave. 

"I haven't thanked you properly," he started at dinner, facing the house owner while scraping the fork against the plate. "For your hospitality and helpfulness," he continued, "which I have already exploited excessively." 

It seemed like Mr Giacometti was about to say something, but Yuuri indicated he wasn't finished with a gesture of the hand. 

"Please, I've already taken my decision. I'm tired of waiting. I cannot support it anymore," he explained in a soft but sure voice. "Though I will miss Miss Reist's cooking." 

Mr Giacometti's lips quivered in a smile. He took a sip of wine and nodded. 

"When do you plan to leave?" 

"Tomorrow afternoon. I asked about the trains' leaving times last time I went to town." 

"And where do you plan to go?" 

"Paris. Maybe I will be lucky enough and the Opera's job offer will be still available. 

"Do you need a lift to the station?" Mr Giacometti asked as Miss Reist cleaned the table from the plates of the just finished dinner. 

"Thank you, but I don't want to impose," he leaned forward to grab the water pitcher, "But if Victor arrives or he sends another letter, please let him know I’ve gone to France." 

He repeated the same request the day after, in the doorway, holding his suitcase with the coat thrown over the same arm.

"Please, it's important," he insisted. It was a nice April day, sunny and with the vague smell of rain in the air. It would've been the perfect weather for an excursion, a walking and maybe a trip in the meadow like Yuuri was sure to have planned with Victor when they were still together in St. Petersburg. Instead, there was a one-hour walking and a train travel ahead of him.

At the station, his eyes fell on the newspaper someone was reading. A title written in giant letters said France had signed an alliance with England. When he jumped on the train, sometime later, Yuuri was still thinking about it and how, by some kind of transitive property, it could make France a more welcoming country. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Novoye Vremya: Russian newspaper published in St. Petersburg from 1868 to 1917  
> [2] Fur hat  
> [3] Tsarist secret police  
> [4] Warsaw station. One of the two stations in St. Petersburg at the time, the one for international travels.
> 
>  
> 
> Greetings people. It’s so good to be back. I know that I’m three months late on the normal schedule, but several things got in the way. But now they are fixed.  
> Dear, I’m so nervous about this chapter. It opens the second act and it’s the base of everything that will happen. Learning about how trains worked at the time was a pain in the ass and at this point I’m not sure of anything anymore.  
> I had also guessed a lot and took some artistic licenses on the diffusion and presence of phones. Though they already existed, they may be not as diffused and accessible. Same goes with how fast letters travelled. 
> 
> A huge shout-out to [ Curlavski](http://curlavski.tumblr.com) who basically edited this whole stuff alone, other than be always at the ready to listen to my doubts. [ rogovich](https://rogovich.tumblr.com) is then always a precious help for all things Russian. Unfortunately [ Artsdefine05](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artdefines06/pseuds/Artdefines06) cannot beta for me anymore but she is always the dearest and I wish her the best.
> 
> Last but not least �[yuuris-piano](https://yuuris-piano.tumblr.com)/[HQ_Wingster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HQ_Wingster/profile) composed a wonderful piece which embodies perfectly the spirit of this whole project. The piece is so good and he’s so talented I can’t even. You can listen to it [here](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1FyLoFezyvbAuCaVMiNZcQvSsDMdY_k02/view).
> 
> I will try now to return to the usual schedule of a chapter every two weeks, but it may be difficult. Chapter six needs a bit of hammering, so probably I’ll upload it in three weeks. Still, I have the drafts already at the ready, so rest assured I have something in hand.
> 
> As always my ask box, mail, DM, whatever is always open. Come to say hello at [ gwen-chan](http://gwen-chan.tumblr.com)  
> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * Constructive criticism
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> The author replies to comments
> 
> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I’m reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example), feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!“


	6. Amour en cloche

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for imprisonment, blood and mild violence

**Amour en cloche**

Victor hated Moscow to the point of loathing, for the city had an old-fashioned aura he considered excessive for his liking. Moscow may had begun to shed the indolence of the past centuries, but Victor still found it suffocating; barely a couple of days in, he had already had enough. 

"How can young Plisetsky like it," he whined, crossing the Red Square, shoulders lifting for an exasperated sigh. "Yakov, why did we come here?"

Ballet master Feltsman grunted a distracted response, muttering about how to show respect for such a glorious city."And the theatre, Vitya. We are here because the Bolshoi is interested in your _Soblazneniye printsa_. You should be proud."

"I am, Yakov, I am," Victor assured him, kicking a pile of dirty, half-melt snow. "But this city is too boring!" he reiterated, willingly dragging his voice over the adjective.

Only the theatre had softened the sorrow of the staying. If Mariinsky indulged in blue, Bolshoi bathed in red. It wasn't the first time Victor saw the theatre ambiances, but the Bolshoi never failed to astound him with its profusion of gold. Still, the part of his heart not in Yuuri's hands belonged to Mariinsky. For the umpteenth time Victor found himself wishing for Yuuri to have accompanied them. He would make the visit all the more pleasing, making Victor see things with different eyes, like only Yuuri could do. 

"Yuuri should be here. For _Soblazneniye printsa_. He is part of the original choreography as much as I am," Victor reprised, turning toward the ballet master, who furrowed his brow in a little successful attempt to hide a growing exasperation. 

"It would be highly inappropriate, given the situation," he grunted "Besides, you are enough to advertise the ballet. Otherwise, we should've brought also Yura, Georgi, and all the others!" 

Victor let his lack of conviction being expressed by a new, long huff. He gave his back to Yakov and walked away.

"Where are you going?" Ballet master Feltsman called him back, voice caring the familiar sound of repressed anger.

"To church. I want to visit St Basil and maybe pray for this madness to end soon!"

"Be careful about how you speak, Vitya," Ballet master Feltsman warned him.

"When I haven’t been?"

Yakov Feltsman shouted something in return, but the words bounced unheard on Victor's back. Sometimes, he wondered if the old ballet master considered him still a reckless, free-spirited child with no knowledge whatsoever of how the world worked. It was no novelty hearing ballet master Feltsman lamenting with Lilia, when his former wife was willing to pay an ear to him, how he feared Victor had forgotten things worked differently in Russia than they did in France; but Victor knew better. He was an adult, a professional, and he hadn't become Mariinsky premier danseur noble by throwing around careless words. 

There was a vending shop near the cathedral, selling postcards of Moscow main views to delighted foreign British, American, and German tourists. The postcards were all pretty ugly, bland, and cheesy, but Victor bought one for Yuuri nonetheless. It reminded him about how Yuuri once had confessed, during a lazy afternoon after classes, he never went outside of St. Petersburg in five years he was in Russia; to which Victor had replied with a sincere laugh, kissing the crown of Yuuri's head. He had whispered he too hadn't visited much of Russia, in all honesty. 

A swift of wind ruffled through Victor's silver tufts, swiping the bangs from his forehead. The last time he had been to Moscow he hadn't cut his hair yet, almost a decade ago, some time before leaving for France. The feeling toward the city at the time wasn't as bitter as it was now.

Victor secured the new purchase in a coat pocket and looked up, toward the church’s iconic, brightly coloured bulbous roofs plopped on the brick-red towers.

Once inside, Victor let his gaze wander in between melting burning candles and sweet smelling lamps. Holy images popped out from a bonanza of gold, flaming red, and heavenly blue. 

The thought of getting married there crossed his mind: he and Yuuri, both crowned under the rightful blessing from Heaven. A little, melancholic smile pushed the corner of Victor's lips upward.

He wondered if Yuuri would accept a possible marriage proposal. Chris would say he was going excessively ahead of himself, for sure. The smile on Victor's face had a flicker as he sat down in the most unnoticeable, hidden bench seat he could find. He pressed his forehead against his thumbs knuckles, elbows down on the wood.

As much as Victor hated to admit it, as it would mean accepting something unjust, Yakov was right about not bringing Yuuri with them and excluding him from _Soblazneniye printsa_.

The night Victor had performed on stage with Sofja instead of Yuuri in the Seducer role, he had replicated the exact same steps from every show before. The public had applauded with thunderous enthusiasm like always. Victor was no every professional. He was the premier danseur, required to swallow pain and pride for the sake of the theatre and thus he had done by putting on whatever mask the stage required.

Not everybody was fooled. Both on stage and behind the curtains, the other dancers hadn't missed the coldness and detachment of his dance. Sofja noticed it first. 

"You are different," she told him after the show.

"Am I?"

"Yes. You are duller. The emotions you showed today were distant. Be more present next time!" 

"Of course, " Victor had responded in a distracted tone. Sofja had stopped again on the threshold and turned.

"Victor? I know I'm only a substitute, but I'm working hard too. Please, respect it." 

Victor carded fingers through his hair, combing it back up to the scalp in a nervous gesture. He couldn't blame Sofja, who had spoken true and honest words, but it didn't change the fact Victor had created _Soblazneniye printsa_ with Yuuri filling his mind. He was the original Seducer and, though other interpreters would come, the role was his by right. If Victor closed his eyes, the two identities merged into giving two sides of a single unity.

Before leaving the church, Victor lit a candle to pray for the war to end soon.

For the evening, ballet master Feltsman had arranged a dinner with a Bolshoi choreographer in the restaurant of the freshly inaugurated Hotel National. Despite the nice location and his best disposition, Victor soon wished he could stab someone with a fork to put a end to what he thought as nothing but pure torture. He just hadn't decided if he preferred to stab himself or the choreographer.

"See," he said, taking a sip of wine, "we are talking about a concept, the ability to seduce someone to craziness. And, as a concept, it has no gender. It is a neutral entity, neither male nor female. It is not necessarily the role exclusively for a prima ballerina.

The smile of circumstance Victor had plastered on his face hurt. At his left, Yakov Feltsman was holding on the table edge tight enough his knuckles had went white.

"Forgive my student. What he means is the interpretation plays a major role when it comes to ballet, where passions are expressed with such fervour."

"But the role was played by a girl the time I came to S.t Petersburg two weeks ago," the choreographer objected. Victor stabbed a mouthful of mashed potatoes without neither breaking eye-contact nor stopping smiling.

"Well, I have to remind you Sofja Bulgakova is only a substitute. A remarkable ballerina, but a substitute, nonetheless," Victor said, feeling his voice dripping poisonous honey at each word. 

"Yes, I've been informed. I have also read contrasting," the choreographer put the accent on the adjective "reviews about _…"_

"Katsuki Yuuri," Victor promptly supplied, strangling the fork.

"Yes, Katsuki's performance. Breathtaking. Exotic. But the question is: is he, a man, truly fitted for a role that traditionally had feminine traits?" 

Victor believed that, if he was holding the fork a little stronger, he would have broken it. The critique the choreographer had quoted wasn’t a novelty, but hearing them after half a dinner spent in explaining how seduction couldn’t be assigned to a specific gender was both infuriating and disheartening. Anyone could fall in love with anyone, without any harm coming on them. Yet, the idea a man could seduce in the darker, most lustful way, was almost unacceptable. It stained the imaginary of masculine strength and purity. 

Victor shot ballet master Feltsman a new glance, rolling his eyes once as to say he would not respond to his actions if the conversation had continued in that tone. God, it was worse than speaking with Prince Gorchakov.

Master Feltsman must have understood the message, as he slowly shifted the chat to less dangerous lands. 

Victor snapped as soon as the choreographer had bid his goodbye. Before ballet master Feltsman could open his mouth, Victor lifted a finger to stop him.

"No, Master Feltsman," he began, choosing to formally addressing the ballet master on purpose, "Yuuri was the best for the role and you know it. Unless you believe Madame Baranovskaya would give such an important part to someone less than perfect for it. Your ex-wife may have a soft heart hidden under layers of steel, but not when the future of the theatre is at stake."

Feeling pleased for having well expressed his opinions, Victor turned on his heels and headed to his hotel room.

_Dear papa,_

_Moscow may have its hidden qualities, but I cannot see them._

_However, to show some of that maturity Yakov always says I lack, I will not complain. Indeed, something positive can be found even here._

_The theatre is in better condition than I remembered. Gorsky [1] truly did a great job in reforming the ballet company. However I feel the way to go has not yet ended. I honestly don't think all the people here have embraced his approach. Tomorrow I will meet him in person. I'm looking forward to it._

_Please, tell Alina I say hello and, if you could grant your son a wish, keep an eye on Yuuri. These times are not the best for him._

_Love,_

_Vitya_

If Victor had any doubt about leaving _Soblazneniye printsa_ in the hands of inept Bolshoi choreographers, pretending for a moment he had some control over its creature, meeting Aleksander Gorsky dissipated them all. For real, meeting him was the second, "only good thing" about Moscow, with the Bolshoi strong in first position. 

Victor already knew about Aleksander Alekseyevič. Four years before, news about how the young regisseur brought a whirlwind of change at Bolshoi had come all the way from St. Petersburg to Paris. Victor had lazily read the letters in which ballet master Feltsman insisted for his return, hoping to lure him with the promise of a quick career with Gorsky being a premier danseur no more. Victor, however, had considered the Expo and the _Ville Lumiere_ to be more worthy of his time, along with the sweet promise of freedom living away from his old teachers offered. He loved being a premier danseur at the Opera, and there he would stay until inspiration had disappeared.

"What inspired you?" Gorsky’s question broke Victor's brief excursus in his memory as if he had read his mind. Victor liked the man. Few minutes of conversation in, the vague affinity of ideas he had felt simply by hearing stories about the other was confirmed. They were both young, Gronsky only a few years his senior, and thinking out of the box as much as he did.

"Inspiration?" Victor repeated the question, swiping his fringe away in a thoughtful gesture.

"Exactly. Every ballet is born from something, a fairytale, a legend. From where was _Soblazneniye printsa_ born?"

Victor made a slight nod with his head, the gesture when he wanted the listener to know he was reflecting on the proper answer.

"Well," he began, shifting in his seat, "the theme of the belle dame sans merci is not a novelty, especially in these decades."

Victor let his voice fade into silence to leave space for a comment, which didn't come. It seemed like, instead, Gorsky was waiting for Victor to continue and finish his explanation.

"And, I admit, an episode from my personal life," he confessed, never breaking eye contact in proud defence of his creature. Even at Mariinsky, few people knew Victor have been inspired by Yuuri for _Soblazneniye printsa,_ though them dating was the latest, juicy rumour at the Imperial School.

"My personal Seducer," he sighed, more to himself than the other, words softening with a little laugh. Gorsky scribbled something on a notebook before intertwining fingers and leaning forward. Interest shone in his eyes.

"If I'm understanding it right, you took inspiration from a person. Well, rare, but not unheard of," Gronsky conceded, tapping fingers on the desk. "I think I have all I needed to know. It's been a pleasure," he concluded, standing up and offering Victor his hand for a farewell shake.

Victor acknowledged his dismissal with a nod of the head and a polite smile on his lips. At the door, he stopped.

"One day I wish to show you how _Soblazneniye printsa_ should really be. The person who inspired me... you should see him dance. So, please, treat this ballet well."

"It is in safe hands." 

***

Victor welcomed the noise of the train halting at the station with his nose and hands pressed against the window, like a child before a candy shop. In the late evening, he searched the platform in an attempt to find Yuuri in the crowd, anticipating the sweet joy of holding his beloved in his arms. All during the travel back, Victor had fantasized about his reunion with Yuuri, diving deep into the realm of dreams to ignore ballet master Feltsman’s muttering a propos of being excessively dramatic. He would run toward Yuuri with wind in his hair and and they would kiss in the midst of other travelers, romantic music in the background.

When the train came to a complete stop, Victor hadn't found Yuuri yet. He examined again the first row of people right before the rails, uselessly, and shifted his gaze back to where the mass of crawling people ended. The sudden touch of Yakov’s hand on his shoulder startled him, and he resigned to detach from the window to take his luggage and get down before being conducted in the depot along with the train. He bid a distracted goodbye to the ballet master.

On the platform, Victor reprised his search, head twitching from side to side, shoulders slumped from the tiredness. The taste of disappointment was slowly rising from his stomach to his mouth, as bitter as a bad medicine. Underneath, Victor felt the cold touch of dreadfulness. He shook his head to distance the negative sensation and struggled to keep focused. He had no reason to worry. Yuuri's absence may be due to an unforeseen contretemp enough to retain him.

In all truth, Yuuri had never told him he would be waiting for him at the station. Nor did Victor have any proof his letters from Moscow were delivered, as one never knew with mail service. Still, he swallowed, uneasiness crawling under his skin like an army of ants. The more Victor looked, the more the people moving around him started to take the shape of faceless insects; all in excessive number and guilty of distracting him from the true purpose of his search. He looked around for the umpteenth time, walking toward the exit in hope for Yuuri to be there on the street, ready with his arms open for Victor to throw himself into the hug.

Yuuri was nowhere to be seen. Victor couldn't set aside the feeling something was wrong. The romantic scene of his fantasy popped like an old balloon the day after a festival.

The heavy mood accompanied Victor all the way home. The sound of Makkachin's paws scratching at the oak door and his joyous barking for his master's return did little to lighten the atmosphere.

Victor had barely turned the doorknob to open the door when Makkachin rose on his hinds legs to lavish him in a canine welcoming feast, just like when he had returned from France. Victor hugged the comforting presence of his canine companion, patting the dog on the head in tune with the coos and sweet-nothing he was saying.

"Yes, yes! I missed you too. As much as Yuuri. Did you behave well? You didn't try to steal any pastila from Alina, right?"

Makkachin huffed, fluffy head slightly tilting to the side as if to underline his good faith. Victor nodded his approval, surging to his feet with a fluid movement. He retrieved his suitcase from the floor.

"Papa, Alina, I'm home!" Victor announced, in case Makkachin hadn't already alerted the whole house of his return. Alina was the first to appear, head popping out of the kitchen, soon followed by her whole plump body. She was holding a damp towel in her old hands and a frown traversed her forehead.

"Viten'ka! It's good to see the trip went well! Your father is in his studio. I'm going to call him. In the meanwhile I suggest you go change those clothes. There is also a letter from Yuuri. It’s on your vanity."

"A letter?" Victor asked. He believed he and Yuuri had already went past the letter-phase. Not that he didn't love the idea of receiving a letter from Yuuri. He simply didn't see why Yuuri would do a similar gesture, unless he was preparing something; or something had happened to him.

"Yes. Young Plisetsky stopped by to give it to me," Alina explained. Confusion and worry grew in Victor's mind. He was on neutral terms with Yuri Plisetsky, as their difference in age and characters prevented a deeper friendship. If he remembered well, the few times they had a conversation, Yuri had either expressed his distaste for not having had a solo yet or affirmed how Moscow was so much better than St. Petersburg. Victor may have seen his Yuuri talking with Yuri a couple of time at the Imperial School. Still, the reason behind Yuuri entrusting a letter to young Plisetsky was beyond Victor's understanding.

"Did he say something?"

"Not a word. You should go read the letter; it's useless to talk about it until you do," Alina commented.

"You're right. Tell papa I'll meet him in the living room. Makkachin, come!"

Yuuri's letter, still in its envelope, was where Alina said it would be. It was small and for some reason, Victor was all but eager to read it. He took his sweet time to unzip from his travel clothes and change into more comfortable garments, slipping on soft trousers and a kosovorotka worn out by having been washed too many times. In the corner of his eye, he saw Makkachin jumping on the bed and curling at its bottom. Soon Victor was plopping down next to the pet, open letter in hand.

_My dearest, Vitya,_

_Circumstances outside of my control oblige me to leave Russia at once. God knows if I wish to have time to explain myself or to say goodbye in person, but the time is little and Yura is already tugging me by the sleeve so that I put the pen down. I confide he will explain things in details. I have to confess I am afraid for the situation, but I must be strong._

_I will write to you as soon as possible._

_With love,_

_Yuuri_

The letter fell in Victor's lap. Cold flooded his body, the negative sensation which had built up since his arrival at the station exploding in pure worry. He wondered why might even happen to force Yuuri to leave so suddenly and without any further explanations. His gaze returned to the letter, where Yuuri's haste could easily be detected in his small and quick handwriting, the imperfect Russian. Yuuri had referred to him as "dearest"; Yuuri who expressed his love in the shyest details, a comma after an adjective, a ballet step.

"Viten'ka, it's been twenty minutes. Is everything fine?"

Alina's gentle knock at the door made Victor start.

"Yes. I got distracted. I'm coming. Can you please prepare a tea for me, it would be useful," he prayed, retrieving a sweater from the dresser and slipping it on. "I'm also a bit hungry."

"Leave it to me."

Victor features softened in a little smile. Alina always knew what to do. She was a firm point, a comforting presence since his childhood. Moments later he was taking a spoonful of reheated soup in the dining room, while Aleksey Nikiforov poured himself hot water from the samovar.

"What's with that face, Viten'ka? Was Moscow so bad?"

"Yes, it was. The monuments may be astounding, but it is boring!" Victor forced the voice on the first syllable. "But I'm not worried about that."

"What is it, then?"

Victor blew on the tea, a wrinkle between his eyes. The letter's words were clear in his mind, as if branded by fire.

"Yuuri left the country. He left me a message."

"Did he give you any explanation?" his father asked in a serious voice.

"Nothing. He just left and I," Victor swallowed, surprised to have words he wanted to stay stuck in his throat, "I am worried."

"I'm pretty sure I saw him around at least Friday afternoon. He seemed in a hurry," his father recalled out loud. "He wasn't at mass yesterday, but I supposed he was sick or I simply didn't spot him in the crowd."

"You should talk with young Yuri Plisetsky. He must know something," Alina suggested, raising her head from the knitting work she was tending to, hands moving as if they possessed a soul of their own. "He brought the letter Saturday morning."

"Yes," Victor murmured, "I'll speak to him tomorrow. Now, please excuse me, but I'm tired. Thank you for the late dinner and the tea. Goodnight."

"Viten'ka?" his father called him back. Victor turned in gracious motion.

"Yes, papa?"

"I'm sure it's nothing to worry about."

"I hope so."

It took only a few requests inside the Imperial Theatre School for Victor to find Yuri, who didn't look surprised to see him in the slightest.

"You read the letter, I suppose. Do you know some quiet place to talk?" he cut to the chase.

"My changing room? It’s empty now," Victor suggested.

Yuri snorted his approval.

Once there, he wasted no further time to dive into a quick explanation of what had happened during the week Victor had been absent. All the while, Victor had his eyes glued to a vague point in the middle of the room, right in front of the rack of costumes, as if he was looking to another point of reality. There he had met Yuuri for the second time, when he was still a man with his head high in the clouds for a stranger and Yuuri had no memory of their shared masquerade. Little more than a year had passed, but it seemed like much more.

"Victor Alekseyevič, are you listening?" Yuri battered his foot on the floor to vent his impatience, arms crossed over his chest and lips pouting.

"I am," Victor assured. No sign of hesitation stained his voice, which remained calm like an icy lake. It was an illusion, though, as inside fury was bubbling. "I am listening and this is ridiculous. My Yuuri, a spy? He must be a really good one!" 

"Of course he isn't. No good actor can look as surprised as he was!" Yuri exclaimed.

"Where is he now?" Victor reprised eventually, finding no other thing to say. The idea of Yuuri not being in town anymore was almost unreal, like an eternal rule no one should have ever broken. Having lived his entire life prior to the last years without the slightest knowledge of Yuuri's existence meant nothing; with Yuuri, he had discovered an old, careless self who he had believed was buried under twenty years of training and etiquette.

"I don't know. If we are lucky, he crossed the border. A friend of mine gave him instructions on how to contact us back, but it will be a while," Yuri answered, back pressed against the nearest wall. Victor couldn't help but to find it amusing how Yuri's posture was perfectly straight despite everything. He really was a dancer down to his bones.

He was also so young. In a few steps, Victor was standing right before him. He ignored Yuri's glare and put a hand on his shoulder. 

"Now, would you be so helpful and tell me what you have to do with all of this."

Yuri didn’t reveal more than what was strictly necessary about the role he had had in Yuuri’s escape. Victor soon noticed the boy must be immune to his charm, which on the contrary seemed to infuriate Plisetsky. 

"Of course I’m not telling the details!" he snapped again, stomping a foot for good measure. With his ballet slippers, the gesture produced almost no noise, and Victor had to suppress a laugh despite the situation. "Knowing you, you will spill the beans in no time!"

"I assure you I am very good at keeping secrets."

The affirmation hadn’t convinced Yuri Plisetsky in the slightest. In the end, despite feeling offended for the little faith the boy had in him, Victor understood his concerns. 

He reflected on all of this while returning home, the surroundings becoming increasingly unfamiliar until he stopped and brought his full attention back to the situation at hand. He looked around at the street, which for sure wasn't _Malaya Konyushennaya Ulitsa_ , but at the same time wasn't as unknown as it should be. Noises came from a nearby station. Victor took a few other steps down, tilting his head back to better examine the building façades, simple and nude. It was indeed a different atmosphere than the luxury of the neighborhood where he had grown up.

When Victor eventually recognized the place, memories flooded over him of how he had accompanied Yuuri home last autumn, walking down the street hand in hand. He tentatively touched the front door. It opened with a squeak, as if a sign from Fate, inviting him to step up all the flights of stairs to Yuuri’s landing.

They had stood in the same landing, before the same door Victor was staring now; the same Yuuri had protected with his body so that nobody could pass. There, Victor had kissed Yuuri for the second time, savouring the sweet lips of his beloved, heart fluttering in his chest like a maiden at her first crush.

A voice inside Victor whispered he should turn away and leave things as they were, that he had no right to violate a privacy Yuuri was so eager to defend. Yet, he didn't move, as if something was preventing him from leaving. Almost as if, deep inside, he hoped that by standing there in wait, Yuuri would have magically re-appeared with his sweet smile and the delightful surprise lightening sparkles in his eyes. 

Victor pressed his back against the door, legs slightly bending at the knee. The temptation, for how irrational it was, to sit there forever on wait was indeed palpable. 

Victor slid down a bit more. The door produced a squeaky noise and cracked open with a sudden movement. Victor jerked back in full standing position thanks to all the years of dance and his perfect equilibrium. He placed his hand on the door, leaning forward to better examine the lock. It was broken.

Another push and the door swung open. Victor peered inside, not daring to trespass yet. The room was in a terrible condition, not for its simplicity and emptiness, but from an external force, and it didn’t take a genius to understand Yuuri was not the one to blame. All over, there were the signs of the passage of several men with little care for anything apart from their objective. 

Dirty boot soles had left black traces on the otherwise pristine wooden floor, the bedsheets had been pulled out and balled at the end of the bed, the pillow and the mattress cut in a tragedy of woolen flakes. Stepping inside, Victor had to watch his feet for there were papers and photos scattered all around of drawers being thrown open and overturned in a frenetic search. He moved as if in a trance, destruction reigning no matter where he turned his head, a warning of what the Okhrana was capable of doing. 

A cloak of unease permeated the air, heavy enough to make him nauseous with a sick mixture of guilt and rage from violating Yuuri’s privacy in the destruction others had caused.

Yet worse than the ruin was the still-lingering presence of Yuuri in all the little details that made the room a home, and that the Okhrana wasn’t able to obliterate. 

On the wall above the bed, a whiter patch indicated the point where a picture had probably hung. Victor’s gaze turned to examine the floor until he found it, near the little stove. He crouched and picked the image up, finding himself studying the illustration of sparrows in Japanese garments chatting around a low and round table, wings holding minuscule cups of tea. In a corner of the room were the remnants of an altar to a beautiful, dark-haired woman in regal attire. It reminded Victor of the holy images he had seen in Japan. There was a calendar with brief annotations in kanji with random boxes circled or crossed. A worn out book in Russian lay on the bedside table.

Looking back at the chaos of cards, Victor couldn't help but smile in discovering some old postcards picturing him in full ballet attire from some old shows. There were even pictures from when he still had his hair long. It was incredible how Yuuri never failed to surprise him. 

Strangely as it was, Victor found no trace of the numerous letters he had send to Yuuri during the past year, leaving him wondering the reason behind their absence - perhaps whoever had trashed Yuuri’s room had taken them. He could only hope Yuuri had brought them with him in his escape. 

Victor flopped down on the edge of the bed, fingers playing with a hole in the mattress, imagining Yuuri laying next to him. How darling it would be to have him in his arms. Or to be held, whispering sweet nothings in each other's ear, legs intertwined under the covers at dawn when the town was still sleeping.

Something wet slid down his cheek, then another and another. It was an occurrence so rare that it took Victor a while to understand he was crying.

***

 

"Enough! Vitya, stop this!" ballet master Feltsman exclaimed, his words underlined by the dull thud of his cane on the polished floor of the ballet room. Victor exited from his last foutté, slightly unbalanced on one side. Salty sweat trickled down from his brow, burning his eyes. His legs muscles were killing him, more rigid and cold than they had been in ages. He swept his fringe away with a rough gesture. 

"What is it?" he answered with less politeness than was appropriate.

"Victor Alekseyevič," ballet master Feltsman reprimanded him. The situation wasn't at all a novelty. 

"You are not present. Your body's here, but your mind is who knows where. I can understand you are worried about Katsuki, but you have a role to prepare for.”

"I know, I know," Victor huffed in response, walking briskly toward the ballet barre to do some stretches in the hope that it would help him clear his troubled mind. Not knowing where Yuuri was or if he was alright was torture. More than a week had passed since Yuuri's leaving and still no news from him had arrived whatsoever, despite Yuri Plisetsky's assurance that they had set up everything to preserve a channel of communication. Apparently, however, something must have gone wrong and Yuuri had taken a different route from the one previewed in Plisetsky's and Altin's failed plan.

"Otherwise I may as well give this role to Georgi. He is as good as you and more motivated," ballet master Feltsman continued.

"I've told you, I know," Victor replied, voice bordering on snapping. But anger wasn't a feeling he was supposed to show to the world, so he turned it inward and returned to the solo starting position, his competitive spirit shutting down his concerns for the time being.

"At least you understand me," he whined in Makkachin’s direction as soon as he stepped home, walking straight to the living room and throwing himself on the couch. He let his dog lay across his legs.

"Life has been so mean to me lately," he continued. Makkachin raised his head from his crossed paws and looked at his master with intelligent eyes, tongue lolling out. "Yes, very mean!" Victor repeated. Makkachin barked in response, jumping down onto the carpeted and wiggling his tail with enthusiasm. It elicited a laugh from Victor, who soon surged to his feet as well, patting his hands on the thighs. Makkachin barked again.

"I understand. You are hungry. Come, I can hear Alina working in the kitchen. I'm sure she'll have something for you!"

In the kitchen, Alina was busy cutting some vegetables for the dinner soup. She moved so quickly and efficiently, one would believe a whole squadron of people had done the work she was doing alone. Victor peered from above her shoulder, looking at the simmering pot like he did when he was a child and the housekeeper was the most similar thing to a mother figure he ever had. Alina started, letting go of the knife.

"Oh dear god. Never do that again, Viten'ka. You scared the soul out of me," she exclaimed, bringing a hand to her plump chest. She was pale and dark circles had formed under her eyes.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you!" Victor apologised with a quick kiss on her cheek. He sat down at the kitchen table and took a potato to peel to have his hands occupied.

"Did something happen?" he asked. Alina moved to the sink to wash the carrots and didn't answer. From time to time he reprimanded Makkachin with a small pat on the nose when the dog tried to steal something from the counter.

"Tell me, please!" Victor insisted, also calling back Makkachin to his feet. 

"Some men came to ask if we knew something about Yuuri's whereabouts. If we may know where he may be," Alina resigned to answer, passing a hand over her face. "I've told them we don't know anything, but they kept on insisting! And now with your father away for business it is just you and me. Makkachin continued to growl at them. I feared they would hurt him!"

The poor woman ranted, never stopping a moment to tend to the dinner. "Why did you come here, anyway?" she asked in a clear attempt to change the subject. Victor explained it to her.

"There are still some treats in that pantry," she explained, before chastising the dog’s new attempt to sniff and lick at the soup. 

"Makka, down!"

Being the well-trained dog he was, Makkachin obeyed without a huff, only to rise on his hind legs and try to smother Alina with his canine affection. "Yes, yes. I love you too. Now, get out!"

As soon as the dog rushed out the kitchen, feigning an amusing offense, the atmosphere dropped back to gloomy.

"Alina, was it the first time?" Victor asked. "I need to know."

"No," she eventually answered, after the due amount of instintence, to Victor’s chagrin.

While Yuri Plisetsky had warned him of the possibility of being under observation, discovering the reality of the fact had a completely different impact. It rushed over Victor like cold shower, along with the knowledge that the house was under his responsibility as long as his father was away in Odessa.

"And the other day, I was at the grocery shops and I heard Prince Gorchakov has been seen talking with Count Suvorov. He was speaking about you."

Victor listened without much of a breath, all those names known as fierce nationalistic people, faithful to the bone to the tsardom; all people more than eager to see Yuuri at the gallows.

"As expected!" Victor huffed in hearing the name of the arrogant old Prince. "He had never liked me, and at _Soblazneniye printsa_ prima he has been so rude to Yuuri!"

"Still, he is a powerful and dangerous man," Alina advised Victor, with a scolding tone, "Be careful, Vitya!"

"You sound like ballet master Yakov," Victor said, the noise of bubbles popping up on the soup’s surface in the background. 

"I am worried for you," Alina replied, ushering him out of the kitchen toward the dining room. It wasn't a novelty for Victor to eat alone, but for the first time the fact bothered him.

***

Things didn't improve the following days in the slightest, until a glorious afternoon when a callfrom Chris brought Victor the much-craved news.

Knowing that Yuuri was safe and sound in Switzerland cleared Victor's mind and lifted a weight off his chest. 

From there, making a decision was simple. Victor paid no attention to whoever insisted his plan was a terrible idea and didn't listen to Yuri's warning that the Okhrana may as well be following him. Had it been up to Victor he would’ve left immediately. But despite the fame of lightheadedness surrounding his person, he knew well enough he had a duty toward the theatre. He would leave only at the end of the month when another ballet arrived to substitute the one currently featured. 

Ballet master Feltsman didn't take the news well. He was red in the face, jaw contracted and a vein pulsing on a temple slowly turning to purple.

"You are a premier danseur, you cannot just leave!" he shouted, each word underlined by his cane hitting the floor. 

"Indeed, I am not leaving now. In two weeks. You have enough time to prepare someone to take my place in Don Quixote."

"Please, think it through," ballet master Feltsman prayed, tone softening like a strict father who felt guilty after having scolded his children with excessive zeal, as if he hadn’t heard a single word of Victor’s reassurance.

"I'm sorry, Yakov. I've already made my decision. I'm sure the theatre will survive."

"What about you? What about your career?" ballet master Feltsman insisted. Victor waved away his concerns. "My career, if I cared about that, will survive this."

The fact was that, without Yuuri, St. Petersburg had become an empty shell, days rolling out one after the other in a boring procession. Two weeks, he repeated to himself, two weeks and he would see Yuuri again.

At night Victor tossed in bed, feeling anxious as he had never been before, the new feeling leaving his forehead and hands drenched in cold sweat. Soon, all that would be over. People around him may be right about the craziness of leaving his city, house, and job without a clear plan laid before him, but improvising had never scared Victor as much as it scared the others. 

"I'm so sorry for not being able to bring you," he said to Makkachin, who was curled on the floor, and he tossed another shirt in a suitcase. Soon he would have Yuuri's again in his arms. The rest could wait.

"So it's true!" 

Victor turned around to face his father. It was a Friday afternoon and Aleksey Nikiforov, in a chamber robe, looked tired. As soon as he had returned from Odessa, some men had started pressuring him just like they had done with Alina, their manner smooth but not less dangerous. 

"Yes, papa. Please, try to understand," Victor sighed, closing the suitcase with a swift movement.

"I do. I would have crossed through hell for your mother."

"I'm sorry to leave you and Alina in this situation," Victor continued. Aleksey sat down on the bed and invited the son to do as such.

"Vitya, we are strong. Whatever happens, we can endure it. We will be fine. Besides your happiness is far more important." 

They hugged afterwards, as they might be the last time they saw each other for a long time. Victor felt his father moustache tickling his cheek. 

"Your mother would be proud of you," he told Victor, and it was his final blessing.

 

Victor left St. Petersburg on a day in April, still followed by Yuri Plisetsky's last attempt to make him change his mind, and by Alina's recommendation to not take money from the street and scare away birds on the windowsill. The travel, which Victor spent reading or chatting amiably with the other passenger in his compartment, went smoothly until Verzbolovo. 

There, the journey crashed against an invisible wall, chaining him back. It filled him with the same frustration a horse must feel in understanding the carrot hanging before his nose is unreachable. Yet, no emotion slipped from Victor’s face, a mask of tranquillity and sureness while a policeman examined his passport from every angle as if determined to find any inaccuracy. The man even called a colleague and gently invited Victor to step aside so that he wouldn't block the queue. When they did not give his passport back but instead invited him to follow them to an anonymous room in the station, Victor understood he wouldn't cross the border anytime soon. The first policeman indicated to a seat, told him to wait, and left, but not before locking the door.

Victor looked around at the office where he had been guided, bringing his hands to intertwine behind his nape in an attempt to appear relaxed. He was smart enough to know who had stopped him and why, and looking guilty had never helped anyone; hiding half-truth behind a smile seemed a better strategy. As the saying went, "all the world's a stage."

The room was a simple one, with little to no decorations on the walls, as if the person normally working there had not considered the room worthy to have any personal touch. A stack of papers sat at the centre of the desk. Victor leaned forward to peer at it, but in discovering they were only the registration of some railway transactions, he flopped back in the chair in frustration. He raised his arms above his head, rolled his shoulders, tilted his head back to look at the ceiling. Boredom was slowly creeping under his skin and it turned into nervous energy, each passing minute underlined by the ticking of Victor's pocket clock. He crossed his legs, uncrossed them again, crossed again. If boredom was a form of torture, the people retaining him surely had mastered its art.

At least a full hour had passed when the door opened again. A tremble shook Victor's body, enough to send him on the edge on the chair; however, he relaxed back against the backrest as soon as the other man, in uniform, circled the desk to sat down at the other side. Victor studied him. the man looked relaxed as if they were having an informal dinner in some fancy restaurant, but Victor knew it to be a façade.

"Victor Alekseyevič," the officer began, pretending to examine a bunch of papers. Victor nodded, flashing him a smile.

"In the flesh and bones."

Years of recommendations about always smiling tingled in his ears.

"And you are a danseur. Yes, I've heard about you. I like ballet myself," the man continued. Whether he was saying the truth or just trying to sound friendly, it was impossible to say.

"I'm glad to hear that," Victor answered. "What can I do for you?" he soon after dared to say, with the frail hope of being in less trouble than expected. Strange how as soon as he formulated this thought, the angry face of both ballet master Feltsman and Yuri Plisetsky appeared in his mind in all their glory, both scolding him.

"You see, it's strange for a danseur to leave his company without a warning, especially in full season," the officer said. The chess match began.

"I was visiting a friend. I asked for permit"

"And they granted it to you?" the man wondered in a dubious tone, showing clearly he wasn't buying any of it. Victor shrugged with a sheepish smile.

"It would only be for a week. To clear my mind."

The other man made a thoughtful sound. "We found a nice sum of money in your suitcase."

"What can I say, I like to spend."

The officer made a face, a deep wrinkle crossing his brow, but in the end, he didn't push the subject. He instead fished a photograph from his inside jacket pocket. Despite its being blurry, it was impossible to not recognize the man pictured in it. Victor' eyes widened despite his best efforts.

"Yuuri Katsuki," the officer said as if Yuuri was present and they were doing some introductions. "Do you know him?"

Victor opened his mouth to answer, to say Yuuri was his beloved, and he would have done it if some kind of instinct hadn't made him close his mouth. 

"‘Know’ is a big word. He is a colleague," he forced himself to say, each word like sandpaper against his tongue. It made him feel sick, but telling the truth would only worsen his situation, and he wouldn't be of any help in prison.

"Rumour has it you two are intimate," the other man insisted. His calm tone was starting to be unnerving.

"I am an expansive person, I admit it. And it is only normal to try and be on friendly terms with a person you are to dance with on stage."

The wrinkle on the man’s foreheadbecame, if possible, even deeper. Something inside Victor screamed against his own traitorous mouth. The last time he had seen Yuuri in person, when they had had fun dancing together until they had tripped all over their feet and fell on the floor, clawed at his heart. It had been Victor's idea to dance to lift Yuuri's mood up. Yuuri was dubious at first, but for each step, his enthusiasm had grown until transforming a simple divertissement into a pas de deux that left Victor breathless by its end. He had tasted salt and sweat on Yuuri's lips afterwards. Yuuri had shied himself away, claiming some nonsense about being gross. But Victor knew better. 

"Because," the officer’s voice brought Victor back to the present, "we have reasons to believe he may be a spy against our government. A danger."

It took all of Victor’s self-control to maintain a neutral face, to not scream against how ridiculous it was to accuse Yuuri, of everyone, of being a spy. Doubts could easily flourish in similar situations, where there was a possibility of a person being different than who they said they were, but Victor had no intention of indulging in any of it. Yuuri had sincere eyes and a heart as transparent as glass. According to Yuri Plisetsky’s story, he had almost burst into tears upon discovering that the Okhrana was accusing him of being a spy. Either he was innocent or a wonderful actor. Victor shook his head to chase the thought away. His Yuuri was not a spy. Victor remembered well how he had reacted when he found out about Japan’s attack, the dreadful expression on his face as if he was blaming himself for his country’s actions.

"Really? I would have never said that. It’s unfortunate," he replied, eyes focused on examining his nails.

"You are lying." 

"Am I?" Victor replied, a lips corner quirking upward in a mischievous grin. The officer drummed his fingers against the desk, taking his sweet time, and with each passing second, Victor's patience trembled. 

"You do know Yuuri Katsuki. We found your letters in his apartment. Letters that looked ... intimate."

Victor clenched his jaw at the image of someone reading what should have stayed private, meant for no one but Yuuri's alone. 

The thought of his courting letters to Yuuri being in some secret police archive, in the dirty hands of some officer paid to read and analyze every word, twisted Victor’s stomach in anger. An acidic taste filled his mouth.

"And yet you say you were not close? What happened? A bad break-up?"

"What do you want?"

"Only to know where Katsuki is," the officer finally cut to the chase, posing what Victor felt to be the first direct question since the beginning of the interrogation.

"I don't know." 

Victor thanked years of pursuing the stage for having taught him how to lie at its finest. Though, never has he imagined that learning how to smile despite his feet screaming in pain or how to fake tears so true the audience cried with him would one day be used in a questioning. 

"Where were you going?"

"To visit a friend," Victor insisted.

"And this friend happens to live in?"

"Italy," Victor answered promptly. If they believed he would be stupid enough to give himself away by confessing his real destination, they had better think twice. Something inside him snuggled in the smug sensation of not having fallen in yet another trap. Besides, he wasn't even technically lying, only telling half-truths that together didn't correspond to reality. 

"I still think you are lying. Maybe some time alone will help you clear your mind." 

Victor turned. Two men in uniform were standing at each side of the door. Not even for a moment he did consider the possibility of shooting away right between their net. Instead he plastered on his best smile, the most fake and the most charming of his repertoire, and walked to them. With his head held high and his impeccable posture, he was like a king asking his guards to make way for his passage.

"Which way is my cell?"

What he had called a cell revealed to be nothing more than a semi-empty room that once must have been a large closet of some sort. It had, however, been emptied, and a simple bed was pushed against a wall. If it hadn't been for the complete absence of windows, apart from a loophole, it would've been even nice. The lack of a window to look outside was what bothered Victor the most.

It surpassed even the distaste of having to relieve himself just a few steps from where he was supposed to sleep. If there was a restroom, which Victor was pretty sure there was, they had no intention on letting him use it. 

Without a window or a watch, which had been taken by the guards, he couldn't know if it was day or night, and though he had grown up in a city where the sun didn't always set during summer or rise in winter, it was difficult to endure. Not knowing anything better to do, he threw himself on the bed, like a child who received a chastisement for the first time. For all his life, he had been cherished and loved by everyone; even the harshest of scoldings from his ballet masters done with affection. Being imprisoned was outside his comprehension.

Time drifted slowly as molasses without any sign of human presence. Victor spent an amount of time he wouldn't be able to measure doing lazy legs exercises with his eyes fixed on the ceiling until he drifted into a troubled sleep. 

When he was too restless to stay lying down, he paced around the room. After what might be two days, according to his biological clock, the door swung open. With all the due manners, a quiet handmaiden brought him what was necessary to wash his face. 

Some time later, another man in uniform came and conducted him to a room where the officer who had questioned him was sitting at a nicely-set table. Scrambled eggs, soup, and vegetables made a scene. Victor's mouth watered despite all.

The officer gestured at Victor to sit down. "You must be hungry. The eggs are delicious," he said, taking a bite as to underline his words. Victor repressed a surge of nausea. If they believed he would be bribed by some food, they had better think again. He was used to hunger, to starving himself, to complying with the strict Mariinsky rules. So he sat down looking almost annoyed and simply picked at some vegetables, for it also would be stupid to not eat, considering the situation he was in.

"So, where is Yuuri Katsuki?"

"As I told you, I don't know."

"And where were you going?"

"To meet a friend in Italy."

"Are you sure Katsuki is not in Italy?"

"If he is, I don't know."

"Even though you were so close?" the man pressed. "He didn't tell you where he was going?"

"As I told you, we weren't close. Those letters are old." 

Victor gritted his teeth so hard it caused him pain. He would have stuck the fork he was holding right into the man’s eye if he had had the opportunity. He let go of the cutlery, surprised with himself for the surge of anger. He answered what was left of the questioning in monosyllables.

For each lie told, Victor could almost picture Yuuri's expression of betrayal. Though Victor would later explain the good reasons behind his lies, dismissing his beloved as nothing more than a colleague filled him with guilt. It clawed at the back of his mind as he lay in bed in the cell, unable to invent a strong enough distraction. Running through simple warm-up routines in the little space provided an ephemeral relief. 

In his mind, he repeated the whole of his choreography from _Soblazneniye printsa_ , for he knew every step by heart, both his and Yuuri's. How many times Yakov or Lilia had made them start from the beginning because a foot wasn't positioned perfectly or a hand was slightly under or above where it should have been; the thrill of the première, when the Prince and the Seducer had intertwined a dance of passion, and for a moment Victor had thought he could even kiss Yuuri on stage, in front of tens of people. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend to lay in the half-wet grass on a sunny November day with his head in Yuuri’s lap. Yuuri was reading a book and from time to time he would gently card finger through his hair; safe, at home, and in the arms of the person he loved. It was only a month since Yuuri's departure, but it felt like ages. 

The second time his captors let him out the cell for another questioning, there was neither a nice set table nor kind manners. Somehow, Victor found himself shirtless and with his hands tied behind the back of a chair. 

Victor had the feeling the Okhrana - their presence was by now clear - would have been more considerate of him if they were still in St. Petersburg, where he was well known and loved. Now, hundreds of kilometres from home, Victor was alone, and the Okhrana seemed to have all the intentions to exploit the situation. 

A thin but sharp wooden wand came whistling down on Victor's shoulder, the movement adjusted to draw blood.

Victor's breath hitched in his throat, more from the surprise of having been hit than from actual pain. The thought that they were more interested in scaring him than in doing real harm crossed Victor's mind. 

"Where is Yuuri Katsuki?" the usual officer asked.

"As I told you, I don't know" Victor repeated. The wand struck again.

For all the questioning, the officer didn't ask anything but that one question, his tone always calm. It carried the promise that as soon as he had told them what they want, Victor would be free. The vague menace of the opposite possibility lingered in the air. A shiver of fear shook Victor's body. Nonetheless, he didn't change his answer, repeated it with the same dull voice of a boring step sequence. A thin thread of blood trailed down his chest. He thanked years of inflexible teachers who didn't know pity for his high pain tolerance. He locked eyes with the officer without breaking a sweat.

"I don't know."

Each time, the wand hit the skin, harsh and quick as a snake, biting as Siberian cold, until the officer got tired and ordered for Victor to be escorted back to his cell.

The Officer questioned him one last time the day after. Then, seeing how they couldn’t seem to obtain anything from him, they stopped. If Victor had made his calculations right, four days had passed since his arrest. Another three rolled out before the cell door was opened again by a person who wasn't the usual maid to empty the chamber pot. 

Two anonymous guards were standing in the doorway. All of Victor’s body stiffened out of both fear and anticipation for whatever was about to happen. Any action after a period of tranquillity was to be feared. Victor kept his head high and proud and his back straightened, but his legs trembled like after too-long series of fouttés while they guided him through the palace aisles and, finally, outside. Victor glanced around, blinking with tired eyes in the chilly afternoon air, feeling drowsy tears trapped between his eyelashes. 

A few moments later, he was at the station and on a train bound back to St. Petersburg. A freezing sense of dread, the possibility that it was only the beginning of a journey toward some forgotten place in the depth of Siberia, crawled under Victor's skin. After all, the Okhrana was famous for playing with their prisoner as they please; no need for justification or explanation. 

The thought haunted Victor as he boarded, the guards still at his side. Both of them sat in back-corner in a third-class wagon. Victor was used to be watched; he cared little for possible stares, eyes fixed on the passing landscape outside the window until the night made it impossible to see anything but a wrapping darkness. 

When the familiar scenery of St. Petersburg’s outskirts appeared in the distance, Victor's heart leapt inside his chest, the joy of being home greater after a week in prison than ten years in another city. He felt the urge to give his goodbye to the city in a way ballet master Feltsman would surely define as overly dramatic, even for theatrical standards. Instead, to his surprise, the guard picked what Victor recognized as his internal passport from a pocket in his uniform and handed it to him.

"Has the cat got your tongue?" Victor joked, meeting no response. "I see, no joking. So, where do we go?" he continued, voice forcefully cheerful. 

The guards simply gave him another document, a typewritten letter whose message, under a layer of bureaucratic language, was clear: If Victor ever tried to leave St. Petersburg in the near future, the consequences would be unpleasant. He took a second look at the passport, noticing how each page of the booklet had been crossed out. [2]

"You are free to go," one guard finally muttered in a deadpan voice before twirling on his heels and leaving with the knowledge of having done his job. 

Victor dragged himself home, the understanding of the just-passed danger slowly growing in his mind like the tide. It showed in the shivering of his hands as Victor shoved them in his pockets, grabbing fistful of fabric. Makkachin’s joyful welcome did little to lift up his mood. 

Alina appeared soon after, her grey and brown hair dirty with flour and her arms covered in traces of dough. The way she looked at Victor said everything. Makkachin too whined and stopped at once all his bouncing, headbutting against Victor's leg.

Victor passed a hand on his chin to scratch at the itching stubble. He felt crusts at the corner of his eyes and his lips were cracked. He hadn’t taken a shower in a week and he smelt bad. The cuts from the hitting itched.

"Viten'ka? You look terrible! What happened? Did you see Yuuri? What is with that face!" Alina all but attacked him with a torrent of worried questions. 

Victor knew she was only worried about his wellbeing, but keeping calm required much more than his usual self-control. He felt like he could fall anytime soon, empty from the week in cell and tired from the return journey. 

“No," he said voice so low he was only mouthing the word, "I didn't see Yuuri. I didn't even cross the border." 

"Why in the-" Alina stopped mid sentence, "Never mind. I can see from here you are not in the condition to talk. My poor boy! I'll fetch you a bath. Then you will tell me what happened!" 

Victor sat in the tub until the water turned cold and his fingertips became all wrinkled. The tiny wounds were already cicatrizing and would soon disappear without leaving a scar, as if they had never existed. He shaved and put on clean clothes, indulging in the sensation of the soft, good-smelling, and familiar fabric against his skin. In the living room, he snuggled on a corner of the couch with Makkachin at his feet. 

"Where is papa?" was the first thing he asked. His voice sounded childish to his ears. 

"Still dining with Mikhail Babichev. Now, we believed you already in Switzerland. What happened? Tell everything to your old _njanja_ ," Alina invited, and Victor did, leaning against the woman for comfort, although he was a grown man and bigger than her. Still, bundled up in a warm cover and with a fuming cup of tea in his hands, as he slowly told her about the experience, he truly believed Alina could have protected him. It was reassuring seeing her plump face slowly turning red with indignation as she stuckout her chest like a hen puffing out her feathers to appear bigger.

"They ruined my passport. I am stuck here!" Victor lamented, with his head against the woman’s shoulder

"Those … those …" Alina clenched her hands in her lap. She jumped on her feet, paced a bit, sat down again, all railing against the Okhrana, cursing their entire bloodline. But Victor didn’t really pay attention to it, as all he could think about was Yuuri waiting for a meeting that now wouldn't happen any time soon.

The next day, as if to confirm Victor's fears, the house telephone was disconnected. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Aleksander Alekseyevič Gorsky was a Russian ballet choreographer and a contemporary of Marius Petipa  
> [2] A Russian citizen had two passport. One for internal travels and one for international trips. People of high soslovie had their passport in booklet form, with each page being a document valid for a journey.
> 
> Welcome back! I know, I know, it’s been already another month, but I had a quite hard time finding a new beta to help me and [ Curlavski](http://curlavski.tumblr.com) (who is always so dear), but now I can welcome on board [ Dev_Writes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dev_Writes). I’m so very happy.  
> And, as always, Russian details courtesy of [ rogovich](https://rogovich.tumblr.com).
> 
>  
> 
> I have to say I used nice bit of guessing and artistic license for the Okhrana methodology, and probably in real life Victor wouldn’t have had so easy. Though, there are records from the period of the Okhrana treating with better manners people they knew were from important families and had powerful connections; like the Morozov family, of which the Nikiforov in this AU are the fictional counterpart.
> 
> As always my ask box, mail, DM, whatever is always open. Come to say hello at [ gwen-chan](http://gwen-chan.tumblr.com)  
> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * Constructive criticism
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> The author replies to comments
> 
> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I’m reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example), feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!“


	7. Tendue

**Tendue**

Paris’s impact on Yuuri shook him to the core, the city nothing like Victor had described. He wondered if a city showed a different face for each person, various elements of an unknown whole. There was a frenzy in the air, and colours, so many colours. The streets echoed with the clopping of horseshoes and even the casual cracking of a car engine. There were more bicycles than Yuuri had seen in his whole life, a profusion of steel bent to human will in curved lines. People walked down the _rues_ [1] in clothes that in St. Petersburg would be considered still too light for the season. The umbrellas, when opened, were more to protect themselves from the sun than from the rain. It was vibrant, clean, and vain, like a woman on the verge of maturity with her makeup perfectly done. 

It hadn’t taken long for Yuuri to understand how the _Entente Cordiale_ [2] would not provide him, a Japanese stranger, any kind of advantage, despite England already having an alliance with Japan. Apparently, common citizens, especially foreigners, were not meant to benefit from countries’ moves on the world chessboard. It showed in the strange look the woman at the hotel reception gave Yuuri.

Monsieur Gailhard received him with no more kindness when Yuuri dared to show up with two weeks of delay wondering if there was still a place available at the ballet company.

"Obviously, we couldn’t wait for you," the man said, examining a pocket watch to underline the concept of Yuuri wasting his time.

"No. Certainly not. Forgive me." 

Yuuri bowed his head, backed toward the door, and exited.

In the entrance hall, he allowed himself a moment to admire the greatness of the ambience, with the giant central stair bifurcating toward the balcony. He partially closed his eyes, bathing in the light of the lamp attached above the marble columns, and brushed his fingers against the handrail. How many times Victor must have run up and down the same stairs, his light steps barely sounding on the stone, silver fringe bouncing in line with the movement. How he breathed the same air, glowed in the same light. Victor would've described the Opera secrets with an enthusiasm able to dissipate the darkest clouds. If only he were there.

The image made Yuuri's heart hurt as if his chest was burning, stomach falling into the deep pit of worry, cold and empty. Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes.

Yuuri kept it together just long enough to close the door of his room behind him. Flopping onto the bed, he buried his face into the pillow and burst into tears. Crying was something with which Yuuri was familiar; something he could understand. It helped melt away the knot of worries tied in his chest. It was cold water thrown on a crackling fire, a wind creating an emptiness in his mind. Emptiness was good. From emptiness, he could start again.

Yuuri cried into the pillow until it was damp and the last sob had left his throat, gross with crusts at the corner of his eyes and sticky trails of tears down his cheeks. He sniffed a couple times and head to the washstand, where he immersed his face directly in the water-filled bowl first and then rubbed it with a towel with enough vigour to turn his skin red. Carding wet fingers through his hair to push some tufts back from his forehead, he looked straight in the mirror. 

 

His reflection looked back with a sparkle of determination in his eyes, the first aim clear in the necessity to find a job and the awareness that the money he still had after the last expenses wouldn’t allow him to survive for more than few weeks, a month maximum.

Without a job and a place to stay, he had no hope to survive; not without a roof on his head and a room to arrange his life until news came from Victor - or until he would feel safe enough to write back.

It didn’t take long before a vague idea at the back of his mind turned into a full-fledged challenge, pushing Yuuri until he found himself pacing around the room, tracing the perimeter of the bed from side to side, up and down, with the precision of a clock, the soft pad of his steps as background noise for the bundle of thoughts in his head. 

For each step, he pondered what qualities he had. For once, Victor's flattery was coming in handy, as all Yuuri had to do was close his eyes, and he could hear Victor telling him what he was good at.

He was a dansuer; that, he had studied. From his childhood in the hot springs resort, he remembered something on how to serve people, but nothing specific. It was a good thing he knew three languages, albeit with all different levels of fluency. The truth was Yuuri had never really thought about what to do when his career as a danseur would end. Probably he would work as teacher or assistant in some minor theatre. Still, if he looked inside him, he could find there was something more, intelligence, hard work, and the ability to adapt to the circumstances. He had been on his own since he was eighteen and had survived a cultural clash unlike any other. He could survive this new task.

Yuuri walked the streets of Paris. Sometimes, he recognized some rues names, as Victor must have mentioned them while reminiscing about his younger days. The absurd mix of fondness and sadness that nostalgia caused never failed to fill his eyes with tears. Most of the times Yuuri just let them fall, on his glasses, rolling down his cheeks, until he calmed down and could begin anew. In few occasions he forced himself to push them back, biting his lip because it was neither the time nor the right place to cry.

He knocked at every business activity door, each time saying the same thing: he may be a slow learner but he was a hard-worker. At first, he offered his politeness, precision, and culture as his best credential, but when most of the doors closed in his face, he changed approach.

Eventually, after days of searching, he stumbled across the news that a milliner in _Le Marais_ [3] quarter was looking for an extra aid and there he went, cleaned, shaved, hair combed, wearing the best clothes he had. The milliner, a strict-looking woman who reminded Yuuri of Madame Baranovskaya - if not for the face then for her manners - studied him from head to toe and simply asked: "Can you sew?"

"A bit, Madame," Yuuri promptly answered.

When living alone, it was a skill one person better know, to reattach the usual buttons or mend a tear in the clothes. Also, in the ballet environment, knowing how to use a needle and thread was a precious skill, and Yuuri had quickly learnt it. He remembered how almost every dancer, especially the ballerinas, never went to class without a sewing kit to adjust a pair of ballet shoes, a leotard, or a fragile tutu.

The milliner pursed her lips, a gesture that created a grid of thin wrinkles. Yuuri looked down and noticed how her hands were red and bruised, damaged by hot vapours and chemicals.

"We'll see, kid. Let's start with something simple. Something you cannot damage," she said in the end, picking a bonnet from its head-support. Yuuri couldn't ignore the fine work in the hat, the delicate embroidery on the brim and the little bouquet sewed to a purple ribbon around the top. "Well, what are you still doing there? Get to work. Quick."

Obeying directions quickly and with the fewest possible questions asked was something common in ballet, and Yuuri had it well-embedded in his being, despite the occasional change of choreography in a surge of determination. He nodded and rushed to pick the flat, straw hat the milliner was indicating to. 

Helping a milliner wasn't the only job Yuuri managed to find. Every morning he woke up before the clock struck six like he had done for years in Russia, but instead of preparing for another day of dancing, he started his delivery tour as milk boy. 

Among the planned stops, there was a _bistrot_ [4] whose menu offered both French and Italian dishes, where coincidentally, an Italian immigrant with a familiar surname was working, Michele Crispino - a surname Yuuri was sure he had already heard somewhere. 

It rang a bell in his mind, a sound about a specific memory waiting to be discovered. Yuuri let his brain wander, memories scattered all around, each one picked, examined, tossed away at the end of the process. When the right one emerged from the sea of all others, Yuuri slapped a hand against his forehead, hard enough to leave a bruise. His spirit ran back to a March afternoon one year ago, seated in a tea-room, listening to Mila talking about Italian families and past holidays.

"Do you know a girl named Sara? Sara Crispino?" Yuuri asked Michele at the first opportunity, while dozens of bottles of milk were being delivered.

The change on Michele's face was immediate, like how a sky darkens fast when a storm arrives. 

"What do you want from my sister?" he asked, putting down a bottle on the table. A hard, tingling sound echoed in the air.

"Your sister?"

"My sister. Why and how do you know her name? What do you want from her? I can assure you, you are not the first man who comes to bother me in this regard," Michele went on. Yuuri wondered why he had become so angry all of sudden.

"I was only -" he tried to interject, but it was useless. Michele was still muttering, and Yuuri was sure he would be late with the other deliveries if he didn’t leave right now. Still, he couldn't bring himself to go. Michele's accent had thickened and in between the French, there were words Yuuri couldn't understand. Italian, he assumed.

"She is too beautiful for you. For any man, understood?"

Oh, so this was the problem. In a different occasion, Yuuri would've waited for the storm to pass, like people did when heavy snow hit the city: everyone retired in their houses, made sure to have enough heating, and waited. Today, however, he didn't have the time.

"I'm not interested in your sister,” Yuuri repeated again, voice as calm as he could keep it despite being attacked for no reason whatsoever. 

"Just like all say," Michele insisted

"Please, believe me when I say I don't even know her. I've never seen her."

"As if this would change something."

The cord of Yuuri’s patience snapped. 

"I have a beau," he exclaimed, voice loud and clear, the word out of his lips before he could even notice. It echoed in the air

Yuuri covered his mouth in surprise and disbelief, for once his tongue had spoken on its own accord and it told the truth. The same truth he had always been too scared to admit, even to himself. 

"What?" Finally, Michele put an end to his rant.

Yuuri lowered his hand from his mouth, taking a steady breath. "I have a beau," he repeated, feeling the power and meaning each word carried. "A sweetheart. I have a sweetheart at home. I cannot be interested in your sister because my heart belongs to someone else. Now, I really have to go."

“You better stay away from her,” Michele warned at his back, voice fading away. 

Yuuri concluded his deliveries, pinching his arms to not stop midway with a head stuck high in the clouds. He had admitted to being in a relationship with Victor to someone else; calling Victor "his beau, his sweetheart," giving form, shape and strength to what had stood unnamed for so long. 

He knew what was between him and Victor was something more than simple courting, but how to speak about love, about being together when no official proposal had been done? Either two people were courting or they were getting ready for marriage, no in between. 

Yuuri dwelled on it for the whole morning, finding it almost impossible to focus on anything. The needle he was holding bit into his skin and drew blood. Yuuri withdrew his index finger from the small garland he was sewing to the brim. 

He brought the bonnet nearer to his eyes to check if the blood had stained it. He lowered the hat on the table, wondering what face Victor would've made if he were present for his unexpected declaration.

"Something on your mind?" Madame Beauchamp asked. 

"It's nothing," Yuuri assured. He sucked the wounded finger, and the metal taste of blood invaded his mouth. "Nothing," he repeated, cutting some new threads and squinting his eyes to thread the needle; but his vision was turning blurry and the needle disappeared behind reflections and delusions. Yuuri let his sight wander to nothing in particular, and the needle slid from his fingers onto the wooden floor. 

"What's her name?" Madame Beauchamp asked again. Yuuri barely heard her. 

"Her name?" 

"The person for whom you're sighing. Who is she? So maybe then you can go back to work." 

"A he, not she,” he corrected.

“Then, what his name?”

“Victor, his name is Victor. Victor Nikiforov," Yuuri said, leaning over to retrieve the needle from the floor.

He brushed the picking point against his fingertips and held in with thumb and index finger of his left hand, while the right guided the thread. 

"It's not a new name," Madame Beauchamp wondered out loud, her hands moving almost on their own in creating a series of small folds on a large hat brim. Making hats was an art by any other name. 

"He was a danseur here in Paris." Yuuri secured the thread with a knot. On the other side, he fitted a series of small, colourful beads. 

"I see. Be careful with those, they are fragile." 

Madame Beauchamp tilted her chin toward a glass bead, which was rolling toward the edge of the table. Yuuri promptly caught and fit it on the thread with the others. He waited for another question, but Madame Beauchamp seemed to have been totally captured by the hat to which she was tending. The room fell into a thick silence, which Yuuri once welcomed. This time it only made his own thoughts louder, echoing inside his skull, and every time Victor’s memory appeared, the needle tasted Yuuri’s blood.

***

As it turned out, Michele Crispino was so concerned with the implication of Yuuri knowing his sister that he found the hat shop where Yuuri worked and strode right in, in an otherwise normal afternoon, with the air of a man ready to avenge his love. 

"You," Michele said, pointing an accusatory finger at Yuuri, who was tending to a delicate work of sewing small feathers on velvet and so immersed in it he barely acknowledged Michele's presence. It didn't prevent Michele from continuing, "You still have to tell me why and how you know my sister's name."

"A mutual friend," Yuuri muttered, words almost unintelligible as he had his tongue stuck in between his teeth, busy with fitting an almost invisible thread in a minuscule eye of the needle.

"A mutual friend?" Michele all but parroted back before bombarding Yuuri with a new series of questions about this supposed friendship with his beloved sister.

At that moment, Madame Beauchamp emerged from the storage room in the back of the shop carrying a pile of straw hats, each not yet decorated by the classic ribbon, which she promptly put down on the nearest table. 

"Michel," she exclaimed as soon as she spotted Michele, and Yuuri couldn't help but notice how the man was less than pleased about the mispronunciation of his name.

"I didn't know you two knew each other," Yuuri commented instead, still not lifting his eyes from the hat. Madame Beauchamp let out a little-amused laugh. 

"Yes. His bistrot is quite famous and I'm very fond of his casserole. Now," she turned toward Michele, "what do you want from this poor boy?"

"Nothing of your concern," Michele muttered in response, underlining how the more time they made him lose, the more he had to keep his restaurant close. "And I cannot allow that." 

"And yet, you are here," Madame Beauchamp pointed out, calling Michele something probably half-mocking, but that Yuuri couldn't quite grasp.

"My sister is more important," Michele insisted, arms crossed to his chest, flopping down on a stool. Yuuri continued to focus on his work, as a mistake would mean ruining the whole hat. His eyes were burning with the effort of seeing an almost invisible thread. From years in an environment where nothing but perfection was accepted, he knew a moment of distraction would be enough.

"Katsuki."

As if confirming his words, the needle shot from his hands, rolling on the luckily pristine, clear floor. 

"Yes, Madame?" he asked, bending forward to retrieve the needle. He secured it in the hat fabric, finally setting the half-done work aside. The woman had sent Michele to wait outside the shop, and there he had stood since then, visible through the glass, like a statue made of salt, only angrier. Yuuri gazed quickly at the clock on the wall. It was late afternoon already.

“Alright, I guess we'll call it a day,” Madame Beauchamp exclaimed. “Go settle your problem with that man who has been waiting outside for ten minutes now,” she added, glancing at the clock herself. It sounded more like an order than a proposal.

"Finally." Michele Crispino jumped back on his feet. "Thank you for your understanding, Madame."

"Anytime," Madame Beauchamp dismissed any further thanks with a smile that didn't reach her eyes, and when she talked to Yuuri again, her face was serious. "Be here early tomorrow. M. Masson will come to retrieve that hat and he's very concerned with punctuality."

"I'll work all night if necessary," Yuuri assured her, grabbing his light coat and following Michele. How strange the world was if his St. Petersburg acquaintances continued to influence his life all the way in Paris. It was like through Victor's touch, the city had left its mark on Yuuri; as if Victor was still following him in spirit and leading him to new allies. Yura had warned Yuuri to trust no one, but sometimes a coincidence was too much to ignore. Yuuri decided to let his guard down. 

Moments later Yuuri was sitting in the sun at one of Crispino's bistrot table, sipping an extra sweet espresso.

"Yes, I remember her now," Michele exclaimed when Yuuri had finished describing Mila. From his tone, he didn't seem particularly fond of her either, as if he considered the girl to be yet another threat.

"Sara spent a good portion of the summer with her," Michele continued.

"When she could have done something better?" Yuuri finished the sentence for him in a tentative tone. Michele's expression told him he had hit the bull's eye. While he still considered Michele's reaction to having been excessive, somehow he understood its roots. After all, he had a sister himself, although Mari would sooner die than have someone protect her.

"Mila is not so bad," Yuuri added, drinking the last drops of coffee. 

"She's still a stranger."

"Well, aren't you a stranger too?"

Michele opened his mouth to reply, but eventually closed it making nothing but an accepting sound. "And Sara insisted on inviting Mila for this summer as well, next August," he muttered, brow furrowing as he followed the thread of his own thoughts. "Wish I could be there," he exclaimed soon after, explaining how he was still debating whether or not close the restaurant for the whole summer month. On one side, most of his usual customers would be on holiday; on the other, the summertime still brought a wave of tourists and a new peak in business. "But I guess I can go away with a week," he continued, getting up to tend to a young couple who had just taken a seat a couple tables away. 

Yuuri let out a small chuckle. Sometimes he forgot how different the year was for normal people than dancers, for whom summertime was an intense period of training and preparation. With a bitter smile, he remembered Madame Lilia's frown when she made the extraordinary exception to allow them a week in the Alps. 

Victor had beamed, wrapping an around Yuuri's waist as they walked down the snow-covered streets of St. Petersburg in December, claiming how wonderful it would’ve been.

"It'll be wonderful. A week, just for the two of us, in the breath-taking scenario of the Swiss Alps," he had described, tugging Yuuri even closer. Before the war, the expulsion, and all the accusations.

"So, can we consider this issue set?" he asked once Michele had returned, an empty jug of wine in hand. Around them, people continued to arrive and fill the bistrot, flopping down with the satisfied sigh of a long day finally coming to an end.

"I guess," Michele conceded, passing the jug to a waiter with a swift movement and giving him a quick order, "But I've written to Sara anyway to hear her version of the story," he concluded with an index pointed against Yuuri's chest. In the distance, the bells rang their powerful announcement it was six thirty. Yuuri pushed back his chair, ready to take his leave. 

"How much for the coffee?"

"Courtesy of the house. Best wishes for that hat. I expect the milk delivery tomorrow," Michele reminded him before moving away toward a customer who was making a fuss over some dish.

"Like always."

***

A month into his new life, Yuuri dared to take the risk and write a letter to the Giacometti family to inform them of his roundabout. He was sure the news would be delivered to Victor from there. 

A response was quick to arrive. The envelope was wrinkled and when Yuuri opened it, the letter had a date from the previous month, but it was from Victor and that was enough. 

At home, Yuuri brought the candlelight closer to better see the words. Some of them were crossed-out, a novelty from the flawless letters Victor usually sent. It looked like he didn't know what to say; or what he could say.

My darling, my light, 

I write to you with a heart heavy with sadness and regret. I regret not having made a decision earlier when I still could, and now I pay the consequences. My passport has been retired and I cannot leave the country. It saddens me knowing I gave you hope I am now destroying, but I want to believe this will only be temporary. In the meantime, I am sure you will be fine.

Forgive the coldness and the lack of explanation, for there are thousands of words I would gladly transfer from the quill to paper. Still, in light of the recent development, it is not safe. I can only hope for this letter to reach you in short time. Please, my Yuuri, have courage and faith* and remember that I love you. Last week, the ice in St. Petersburg bay had started to crack.

Who knows, maybe it is a good omen.

Love,

Vitya

The letter traced back to when Yuuri had decided to abandon the Giacometti’s hospitality in favour of new horizons. 

He let himself fall on the dusty floor, the movement fluid despite all. He pressed his forehead against his kneecaps, letting colourful spot dance before his eyes. It was a warm night in May, but cold slipped under Yuuri’s clothes and bit his skin. He rolled on his side, a cheek pressed against a scratchy board, pondering what may have happened in the span between the moment the letter was sent and its arrival in his hands. A month was a long time, and who knew what new chains had been wrapped around Victor in the meanwhile. The thought made Yuuri’s sick with guilt, which tasted acid at the base of his mouth, like when someone wakes up from an agitated dream. It was all his fault, the reason behind Victor’s trouble. If it wasn’t for him, Victor would’ve remained untouched, St. Petersburg’s darling, welcomed and cherished, able to go and come as he pleased.

It was from sheer willpower that Yuuri peeled off his side from the floor to sit crossed-legged, hands wrapped around his feet. He inhaled and forced his thighs down, indulging in the muscles stretching. In the past weeks he had ended neglecting his daily training, life more overwhelming than expected, and it showed in how the muscles felt rigid under the touch, but Yuuri gritted his teeth and ignored the burning pain because it was only temporary and he could endure it. 

The room was too small to dance properly but big enough to do fouettés, after having pushed the few pieces of furniture against the wall. Yuuri turned on the demi-pointe, the movement starting from the hip, elongated the left leg for half-turn and bent it back to use the momentum. Twenty fouettés were his personal record and he counted them all, eyes focused on a single point, turning until the storm of negative thoughts subsided. 

***

Summer arrived quicker than expected, the promise of a splendid weather brought by late May exploding in its full glory of hot days under a light-blue pristine sky when people had already crossed half the month of July on their calendars. Yuuri could have enjoyed it all if it hadn't been for the fact Victor hadn't written another letter apart from the only one Yuuri had received a month earlier. When Yuuri had taken his courage to write to Chris asking if he was in possession of some news about Victor, the answer was negative. To make matters worse, it seemed the Nikiforovs’ phone had stopped working. 

And when I write, I was advised that my letters should not contain anything more than a silly retelling of everyday amenities. Nonetheless, with the proper care, I will inquire about this situation to the best of my ability.

But do not despair excessively. Times may be dark, but I trust that Vitya is alive and well enough. Otherwise, I trust Mila or someone would have warned me. 

This Chris had written to Yuuri, and his words, albeit of little consolation, had provided some hope. 

It was strange to not be at Mariinsky anymore. Yuuri counted the months, shocked in discovering it had been already four since he had left the company. Fours months without Madame Baranovskaya’s stern corrections and the endless practice in a stuffy room. Three months without Victor.

Yuuri shook his head, tightening his grip on the chair edge in a corner of the hat shop and bringing his feet to first position. 

With Madame Beauchamp away for an important delivery, no customers on sight, and all the due work done, Yuuri could use every quiet moment to train. He knew all too well how much of a cruel mistress ballet was, a demanding lover who didn't like to be ignored. 

Slowly lifting his leg in the air, swallowing away a bit of pain, Yuuri wondered how the theatre was in those days, what show the director had chosen for the new season, if Soblazneniye printsa would still be part of the yearly repertoire, if Yura had passed his exams or if Georgi had left Mariinsky for Vienna. 

Yuuri shifted legs. There was also the issue of Mari and his family in Japan. Taking yet another leap in the arms of fate, Yuuri had written a brief letter home explaining the situation.

With the two letters he had already sent to the Giacomettis since his arrival in Paris, it marked the third time Yuuri challenged Fate in hope that Lady Luck would give Her blessing once again. Writing to Victor, however, was a completely different matter, and with enough dark areas to prevent Yuuri's hand from even taking the pen. It would endanger him, as it would mean writing back to the same country from which he had had to flee. Above all, it would harm Victor, which was more than Yuuri could sustain.

If he had learnt enough about Russian police control on citizens, Yuuri could easily suppose Victor would be controlled after trying to cross the border and failing at the cost of his own freedom to leave St. Petersburg. 

At least this was the picture Yuuri had reconstructed in the previous days, to keep the fear that Victor had forgotten about him at bay. What worried him the most, however, was that even Chris, Victor's best friend, had had no news from him. 

Unless Chris was covering Victor's actions. The thought clasped at Yuuri's throat so hard it became difficult to breathe as if the terrain melted under his feet. He wished he had Victor's letter in his hands right now, as a lifesaver against doubts.

Deep down, at the core of his being, Yuuri knew Victor loved him, with the sureness of the sun rising in the east. It was in the look he saw in Victor's eyes, a sparkle one could not fake; in the little laugh when they had danced together at Mila's house; in the words of Aleksey Nikiforov about his son’s fondness for Yuuri.

With his body still tensed for a series of battement fondus, Yuuri's free hand ran to hold his pendant, Victor's first gift; given to him not because Victor needed to shower him with expensive presents to win his attention, but because of love. By then, Yuuri had already been open to his affections for months.

It had happened in November. Looking back, Yuuri could do nothing but admit they were already together as a couple. No, Victor had gifted him the Faberge egg because it was his way to show Yuuri how precious he was in his eyes.

"So I was right."

Madame Beauchamp’s unexpected return, when she should've been away for at least one hour more, brought Yuuri back in the reality of a simple hat shop in Paris. He slowly lowered his leg to the floor. It was a hot day, and droplets of sweat ran down on the sides of his nose. When he put the glasses back on, they slid.

"About what?" he feigned ignorance. Unfortunately for him, Madame Beauchamp saw right through his poor attempt.

"You are a dancer," she affirmed with absolute sureness. Before Yuuri could even think about finding some excuses, she added, "Darling, you walk like only a dancer can walk. As if a terrible disgrace will fall on you, your family, and the world if you ever dared to bend your back. Either you are a dancer or a soldier, and I would put my hand on the fire that you are not a soldier. You know, I pay you to decorate hats."

There was a note of amusement in Madame Beauchamp voice, but Yuuri bowed his head in apology nonetheless, hands clasped before his sternum.

"I have finished all the work, Madame," he assured.

"Any customers while I was away?"

"No one."

"Good. Now, I am curious, what is a dancer doing in a hat shop? Shouldn't you be in a theatre?" 

"Yes, Madame," Yuuri huffed a response, circling the chair he had used as ballet barre to flop down on it. Since his arrival in Paris and even before, he had done his best to keep the fact that he was a dancer hidden, as it would have led only to more questions about his past, which Yuuri could not answer without exposing. He had been so immersed in balancing his castle of lies and not-saids to forget the body of a dancer spoke louder than a million words.

"I was. I was part of Mariinsky ballet, in St. Petersburg," he eventually confessed. If Madame Beauchamp was an Okhrana agent, she would've recognized and arrested him long before; and since he was probably the only Japanese, the only Easter Asian danseur in all European ballet companies, it made no difference knowing which one he belonged to.

“And yet you came here for a job, looking desperate," Madame Beauchamp insisted. Yuuri remembered it all too well, the way he crossed the shop threshold with the sickening feeling it was his last hope.

"I was expelled from Russia because of the war."

"And now you decorate hats," Madame Beauchamp repeated. Her lips parted to mouth around something more, but the doorbell ringing caught her attention. A second later she was cooing over a young couple of married girls who had been captivated by an embroidered bonnet. 

Yuuri let out the proverbial sigh of the student saved by the school bell. Madame Beauchamp was too smart a woman to not see there was more than what Yuuri had told. Yuuri could only hope she wouldn't feel the need to delve deeper into the subject. 

He prayed to become invisible from people's eyes and from his past; but the gods must be busy somewhere else, maybe on the battlefront, and of this Yuuri became sure a July morning when he found Emil Nekola eating at Crispino's.

"Yuuri, what a surprise. You seemed so worried when you left Vienna. I thought something bad must have happened. It's so good to see you are fine," Emil exclaimed, hugging Yuuri before he even had time to put the daily bottles of milk down.

"Hum, yes, unforeseen business required my attention," Yuuri muttered. The excuse sounded so banal and stupid to his hears, he had to repress the instinct to slap himself. His acting ability must depend on how near a stage was. Inside the theatre, he could pretend to be a man-eating female monster; outside, he carved pathetic excuses. It had already been like that back in St. Petersburg.

"Why, then. Take a seat. It's on me," Emil invited.

"I'm sorry, I cannot stop by now."

Yuuri sprinted away faster than he normally would, running away from the traces he kept leaving behind despite his best efforts. Looking back, there was a whole chain of people tracing his path from St. Petersburg to Paris: the old man with the canary; Emil Nekola; the Giacomettis; the Swiss postman; Madame Beauchamp, and the Crispinos.

They were all people who had helped him, but it was impossible to set aside the thought that treason lay behind friendly eyes. Despite all, however, Yuuri chose to trust Emil. He seemed to be a nice guy and was friend with Michele, who would have already put his hidden intentions into practice if he had any. 

Trusting people was a leap in the dark, but always living on a thin edge of lies had started to be exhausting. In the end, Yuuri resigned to tell Nekola and Crispino the same story he carved for Madame Beauchamp. Michele didn't look very surprised. 

"That is unfortunate," Emil commented sympathetically, stuffing his mouth with a bite of croissant, apricot jam spilling on his shirt. 

"But if you ever need something, we'll be happy to help," he added, ignoring the mess he was making. He turned toward Michele with a signifying glance. Michele all but rolled his eyes as if to say he was all willing to leave the Good Samaritan-playing to Emil. Yet, he insisted that Yuuri accepted a croissant before letting him go for the rest of the deliveries. The next Wednesday, when Emil invited Yuuri to join them for a day out at the Bal Bullier he muttered but didn't veto the possibility in the end.

"Sara is coming to stay with Michi for a week," Emil explained in that enthusiastic tone of his, here and there slipping back into German, "And I convinced him to leave his restaurant for once. You should come with us. There's a place to dance. It'll be fun."

He threw an arm around Yuuri's shoulder, who stiffened at the sudden display of affection. Apart from Victor and his relatives when he was little, nobody had ever touched him for something that wasn't correcting his posture; and ballet teachers normally preferred to use a cane. Yuuri set his head into his shoulder and muttered he didn't want to impose. Emil laughed away his concerns.

"The more, the merrier. I'm sure Sara will like you too."

Michele threw a glance so harsh Yuuri wouldn't have been surprised if bolts of lightning had shot from his eyes.

Sara Crispino arrived, as promised, the next Friday. On Sunday evening, Yuuri met her, Michele, and Emil at the _Bal Bullier_ [5].

Sara was as similar to her twin brother in features as she was different in personality. Where Michele was quiet and reserved, almost clumsy, she had a bubbly and lively personality. Before she even put down her suitcase she was already mid-sentence, babbling a detailed chronicle of her journey to her brother. She proceeded to hug Emil with the enthusiasm of old friends who had no shame in showing affection. Yuuri swore he saw Michele bend a spoon in half, that hard was his grip.

"And you must be Yuuri. The dangerous man against whom Michele warned me. As if he doesn’t warn me about every man on this earth," Sara greeted Yuuri, who bowed his head in acknowledgement.

"Yes and he is taken," Michele intervened.

"No need for concerns, Michi," Sara flopped down on the chair and gestured for a cold drink, "And I'm pretty sure it was I who pointed out this detail. Of course, I was surprised to discover my brother knew the man Mila so often talked about. 

Yuuri almost choked on his food, eliciting a laugh and a very appreciated explanation from Sara.

“For sure, Mila kept me informed about all the juicy rumours in St. Petersburg. She told me everything about the blooming love at Mariinsky."

Yuuri’s eyes widened in the perfect expression of pure horror. The idea that somebody outside Mariinsky or maximum St. Petersburg could know in detail about him and Victor had never crossed his mind.

"Mila?" was all he managed to spit out in a feeble voice, scrambling to take a glass of water. The implications of Sara, a stranger, knowing about him were troubling; as much as he would've liked to forget it, Yuuri was a public person. 

That explained also why Michele had received Yuuri's revelation about his past profession with a disinterested response. It hadn't been disinterest, but the fact it wasn't new information when Sara must have already informed him. 

The truth hit Yuuri hard, leaving him almost with no voice and the awareness that whatever his decision or route taken, he would always acquire unwanted attention. Choosing jobs requiring human contact had been a mistake, and it was too late to be amended. Sara's explanation made it all more painfully clear.

"Well she's Victor's godsister and she loves to chat. She should have come to my place next month, but in her last letter she said she prefers stays home since her brother should have a permit from the front."

Yuuri lowered his gaze, taking a sudden interest in tearing apart a paper handkerchief. Last time they met, there had been a soft animosity in her voice, a subtle accusation Yuuri had picked from otherwise innocent words. After all, if it hadn’t been for Yuuri’s country, her brother would still be home safe and sound, wondering what to do with his life. 

In the end, Yuuri had no doubt Mila must feel resentment toward him, and he couldn’t blame her.

In the background, a small orchestra began another piece, a lively and yet delicate music perfect for dancing. As if under an enchantment, young men and women left their chairs to flood the dance floor. Most of them had more juvenile enthusiasm than real talent, their energy supplying for an often poor sense of music. It was a melancholic pleasure to watch them, and soon Yuuri’s foot started to beat the rhythm against the pavement under the table. 

"Do you want to dance?" Emil had surged from his chair, fingers still curling around a salt cracker, which he hastened to finish in two bites. Dancing with someone who wasn’t Victor felt wrong. Emil, in all his kindness and friendship, was still pretty much a stranger. On the other hand, however, he had never shown any sign of romantic interest; only the will to distract Yuuri and make him laugh, as every friend would do.

Probably Victor would’ve been jealous because it was a human emotion, but Yuuri would give his word he had nothing to worry about, and Victor’s frown would disappear. 

"I don't see why not."

He left his glasses on the table.

Emil turned out to be a good dancer, for someone who wasn't a professional. His grip was strong but not invasive, and he moved with enough grace to let Yuuri forget about his surroundings. It was fun, dancing with someone, letting the music disappear into his being and his body moving according to a memory embedded in muscles. It wasn’t long before Yuuri’s determination and competitiveness took over, enough to start guiding the dance with a will Emil could nothing but follow. It was an easy dance; the steps repetitive in a sequence Yuuri knew well enough to stop worrying. Yuuri danced with Emil, feeling the sadness slowly melting away by the excitement of the moment; how happy it was to dance with a friend for no other reason than having fun together. Somehow, in years of ballet training, Yuuri had forgotten how dance could be something more than pain, sweat and blood - that mistakes were allowed and the world would not end due to a misstep.

Yuuri twirled before Emil with graceful feet, feeling the muscles flashing under his cotton trousers, his surroundings a confused spot of colourful patches. The accordion increased in speed, notes climbing one over the other in the final crescendo, sustained by the occasional clapping of hands of the people bordering the dance floor. The last note vanished in the air of a July Sunday, and with it, the brief joy that had lightened Yuuri’s steps.

It had been Victor who showed him how dancing could be also silly, stretching a hand out for him to invite to a childish dance in the heated air of a ballet room when the time could have been used to train. In the end, Yuuri could nothing but follow his whim. He had laughed with the embarrassment of a person who was discovered enjoying a moment more than they should - the laugh of when some rules are broken for the sake of fun. It had been Victor who made Yuuri laugh like he hadn’t since his arrival in Russia. It was him, not Emil, who should have been dancing in Yuuri’s arms. They would have understood each other without any needs for words.

“Wow," Emil all but huffed, breathless behind his giant smile. He swept his forehead with his shirt sleeve, leaving a yellowish trace on it.

Yuuri's body bent over to catch his breath. Hands ended up on his knees and sweaty tufts of hair dropped onto his eyes.

“Ye-yes. Sorry, I got carried away,” he let out a breathless apology before returning to the table where he ordered a glass of water, which he chugged down in a single swallow. 

The rest of the afternoon slugged away in a gloomy atmosphere, despite Yuuri’s bests effort to hide his mood. It wasn’t the others’ faults if something that should’ve distracted him from his problems ended up having the exact opposite results. 

“You were amazing before,” Sara complimented him, not before having pushed a glass of iced lemonade under his nose. Yuuri took a sip only to discover the barman must have gone overboard with the sugar.

“Thanks. Pardon my intrusion, but when was the last time you heard from Mila?”

Sara made a thoughtful sound, bending over to drink her cherry syrupy water from a straw. "I haven't heard her in almost a month and she was strangely reserved. But if that is helpful, she mentioned something about" - and here her voice tone changed as she started quoting - "Victor working on sending Yuuri letters without raising any more suspicion."

"But she didn't specify?"

"I'm sorry, no."

Yuuri nibbled distractedly at a salted cracker, more feeling the texture than savouring the taste. It was understandable Mila wanted to keep on the safe side, after what had happened to Victor; especially when being so close to the Nikiforovs, the possibilities for the Babichevs to be negatively involved were so high. But it was better than nothing, and Sara gave him the most precious thing a man could receive: she gave him hope. 

***

But hope was often a fragile flame in a storm. Yuuri spent the whole month of August fighting to not succumb to apathy. Madame Beauchamp had closed her business for the holidays and apart from the usual milk delivery in the morning, with the sun already high in the sky, Yuuri's days were empty. 

In the boredom of hot and stuffy afternoons, where the cafés on the Seine filled with people and shops closed one by one, Yuuri found himself being increasingly attracted to the Opera. Since his first turbulent meeting with the Director, he hadn't dared to enter the premises again; but admiring it from the outside was a totally different matter. He brought a hand to his forehead to protect his eyes from the sun and tilted his eyes back. In some other universe, he could be inside the Opera, training on some choreography, being it old or new, instead of slugging toward the next day, often laying on his room floor with his head emptied of every thought. 

Melancholy crawled under his skin, heavy as molasses. It was in those moments that ballet training came to give an unexpected help, sending Yuuri back to his feet with the ghost of Madame Baranovskaya’s cold voice in the air. A dancer knew no pause. 

In the empty spaces, there was the occasional news from the war front, the up and downs of the Russian and Japanese fleets, the harsh battles on land. Yuuri read them all feeling as if about to fall, worried for both sides and thus unable to celebrate any victory. 

He read about Japan success in Liaoyang with a nauseating mixture of national pride and shame, worry and relief; because Japan was his mother and home, but Russia had long stopped being a foreign land. He only wished he knew, in the bigger picture of things, where his rightful place was.

***

"No, I don't know him"

On an otherwise normal late August morning, Yuuri froze before Crispino's bistrot, with the basket full of milk bottles still in hand. 

"Yuuri Katsuki, do you know him?" the stranger repeated, his voice loud enough to be heard by the street. Yuuri thanked the gods the stranger’s back was to him. Before his eyes, Michele shook his head at what seemed to be a photo. Yuuri brought a hand to his mouth, as sudden nausea surged from his stomach. The bottles rattled, for the hand holding them had started to tremble. A gelid sweat rolled down Yuuri's back.

"No, I have never seen him before."

God, the Okhrana was back on his trail again; dangerous bloodhounds, they had a name and a face and soon would tighten their circle around him. The basket handle slipped from Yuuri's sweaty hand, sending the glass bottles to crash in pieces on the pavement. A puddle of milk splashed all around like blood from a wound.

Yuuri ran away without looking back. Had he had the time, he would’ve thanked Michele from the bottom of his heart, maybe even hugged him, and apologized for having misjudged him. If he had ever needed proof of the Crispinos good faith, it had just been presented before his eyes moments ago. But he hadn’t the time to thank Michele, not when the Okhrana agent may be still around. Nor did Yuuri have the heart to involve Michele more than he already was, despite his best efforts, because if there was something he couldn’t stand, it was to be a burden to someone. 

Yuuri ran with thoughts flashing through his mind for each turn taken. He should've been more careful with his movements, spoken with fewer people, forgone his routine.

The truth was that with each month passing, the fear for the vague menace the Tsar secret police represented had subsided to something unreal at the back of Yuuri's brain, like a nightmare fading in the light of dawn.

He had forgotten it is when the prey lets down its guard that the hunter strikes. 

Yet, the Okhrana agent had questioned Michele, instead of going right straight to Yuuri to arrest or kidnap him. It meant they supposed about his roundabouts, but couldn't be completely sure or couldn't allow themselves a failure, or simply hoped to hit two birds with a stone. Whichever the case, it granted Yuuri a tiny tear in their net to escape once again.

His lungs burned in his chest.

Yuuri took the long way to return home, his muscles hurting in the effort not to run, his neck turning here and there to check on possible pursuers. He walked with his head low, in a harsh change of directions, and as if surrounded by a bubble.

When he was at his door, Yuuri almost believed he would found another agent inside. 

The room was empty, but it wouldn’t be for long, and Yuuri was too aware of it, pushing his belongings into a suitcase with shaking hands and no order whatsoever. The luggage bounced against his hip as he headed straight down the road, toward the station to pretend to be a man on a trip. There, he signed up in a nearby and cheap hotel, barely looking at the person behind the desk.

Thoughts flooded over him.

Though he couldn't be sure, he had the feeling the Okhrana was looking for his everyday self, a shy, bespectacled Japanese man with messy black hair and worn out clothes. If he put on once again the sleek mask of the Seducer, people would look past the real him. Yuuri swallowed as the plan slowly built up in his mind. It was risky, the possibility of any of them remembering one of his performances on stage high, but it was better than nothing. At least it promised to give him the confidence he needed to not crumble under the fear of the unknown. Yuuri touched little chain across his neck, wrapping his fingers around the pendant. The money he had saved would be enough to buy a train ticket and a suit, but for the ship journey, he would have to sell the jewel. His fingers scrambled to open the egg. A minuscule piece of paper rolled out. Yuuri picked it up with care.

For my love to be with you wherever you go 

It was impossible to not recognise Victor’s neat handwriting. He must have put it inside the egg when he had laced it around his neck. Maybe even before giving it to him. Yuuri hadn’t opened the jewel at the time. He had just admired the precious object, how the sapphire blue shone under the November dim light. 

Tears spilt from Yuuri's eyes before he could do anything to stop them, rolling warm on his cheeks, as he sank to his knees. In some ways, Victor had always been with him, ready to sacrifice career and freedom for him; Victor, who had disappeared behind the promise of letters Yuuri had never and would never receive because he was leaving Paris and couldn't warn anyone.

With his heart in his throat, Yuuri spent almost all his money on everything needed to make him pass as a gentleman travelling to London for business. 

Dressed in a suit worth months of saving, he bought a first class ticket for the first train leaving for the docks. A flaming new suitcase held his few belongings. As he sat down in a seat next to the window, the reflection returned the picture of a stranger. If the reflection hadn’t copied his every move, Yuuri wouldn't have recognized himself in that sharply-dressed man with slicked-back hair. When the train whistled to announce its departure, Yuuri didn't look back to the town or the people he was abandoning without any warning for fear of exposing himself; if he had, he would become a statue of salt.

It was when boarding the first ferry of the day leaving for England that Yuuri started to find the holes in his plan. He felt it in the stares the other passengers here and there threw in his direction, above embroidered fans and a cloud of cigar smoke. He had taken a seat in a corner of the first-area class, below deck, and tried his best to reduce the conversation to a minimum with the excuse he wasn't feeling too well.

"Yes, these traverses surely are terrible," a young woman said, "Business or leisure trip?"

Manners must have been forgotten somewhere, but Yuuri forced his lips to stretch in a tired smile as he retrieved a handkerchief to dry the sweat from his brow.

"Business. My parents had sent me to Europe to learn about the latest trends in economy and finance for our company."

In the end, it wasn't properly a lie. His parents truly had a business and truly he had come to Europe to learn. The two things being completely unrelated was something the other passengers didn't have to know.

Yuuri carved a slightly different explanation for each who attempted to start a conversation with him, keeping his words vague and pretending to not understand the language when needed. The couple times he made a gaffe in etiquette, he excused himself profusely about still having to learn several Western customs. At some point during the travel he picked a newspaper and, modelling his face in what he hoped to be a sophisticated look, he ignored surging nausea in his stomach to read about the latest proclaims of this Russian General and that Japanese Diplomat.

Yuuri arrived in London drenched in sweat from the tension, tired more from the forced socializing than from the journey, and with no one who could indicate to him the Japanese embassy’s exact whereabouts.

Only a couple of people had been kind enough to give some vague indication, the kind of when someone doesn't want to admit their ignorance. Yuuri reprimanded himself at the umpteenth wrong turn for not having added a travel guide to his purchases. He wondered about going back to the station or finding a hotel room. 

The streets looked, all the same, an enormous labyrinth of alleys where, after a few steps, he had already forgotten from where he was coming. 

The more Yuuri walked, the more he felt he was getting away from the city centre. Walking the road backward, however, brought him yet again somewhere else than his starting point. It was slowly getting dark, a stinky fog rising from the Thames banks, and it didn't take a genius to understand Yuuri had ended up in one of the quarters good people normally avoided. 

He was so immersed in the twirling of his reasoning that he ended up forgetting where he was going and what he was wearing; that he wasn't the meek and invisible Yuuri, who hid in a bundle of second hands clothes, but a rich man dressed in expensive garments from head to toe. Acquiring unwanted attention was only natural.

Yuuri didn't see the punch coming. 

He scrambled forward, hands instinctively stretched before him to soften the fall, as he would normally do when training. He would have managed to stay on his feet, thanks to a strong sense of equilibrium, if another hit hadn't come from behind, right on Yuuri's nape. It sent him down senseless on the dirty and stinky ground. Professional robbers, he realized, before subsiding to unconsciousness.

When Yuuri came back to his senses, the first thing he noticed was the cold rain against his head. 

The second thing was a pair of crouched legs standing right next to him. He blinked in the rain, shivering as he realized they had robbed him of his jacket. His cheekbone was pulsing and his ears whistled. He tasted blood in his mouth. At least his nose didn’t seem to be broken. 

"Are you alright, buddy?" a male voice asked. Yuuri rolled on his side and inclined his head enough to look the stranger in the face. He saw a pair of dark eyes in a concerned, but otherwise jovial frame. 

"Not exactly," he muttered, sitting up. His head screamed bloody murder at him, as a pounding headache travelled from the base of his skull to the deepest regions of his brain. His glasses sat broken and lopsided on his nose. Yuuri adjusted them with a quick gesture and a groan, noticing, not with great surprise by now, that his suitcase had disappeared. A fast examination of his pockets informed Yuuri of what he feared already, as he found them empty of everything but his passport. The robbers must not have been interested.

On top of that, his English was terribly rusty, all he knew coming from what he had heard from tourists at the Yu-topia when he was still a kid in Japan and the occasional pickups from British tourists at Mariinsky. He only understood half of what this stranger was saying.

"You are new, I see. This isn't a safe place to walk," the stranger continued, offering Yuuri a hand. Yuuri made a disappointed sound, raising his shoulders in admission. 

"Well, thank you," he muttered, ready to take his leave. 

The stranger grabbed Yuuri by the arm, making him flinch instinctively. But the touch was kind, and the stranger had a sincere smile stretching his lips, the kind that cannot bear bad intentions. 

"No, no, no," the stranger singsonged, wrapping an arm around Yuuri's shoulder before Yuuri could even think to protest, "I don't know you yet, but I know I cannot leave a poor soul in your condition. So, here's the plan. I'll offer you dinner, we drink some nice brew, and you tell me your story." 

Yuuri stood silent and still. Accepting the stranger’s offer sounded like a folly, and he had no proof it wouldn’t lead into another scam. But the stranger could have as well left him there to rotten under the rain and, in the end, Yuuri had no better choices.

“Yes,” Yuuri blabbered, tiny, almost imperceptible.

After all, he was hungry, and the thought of being left alone again wasn't appealing in the slightest. 

"I can know the name of who saving me?"

"Yes, absolutely," the stranger laughed, puffing out his chest a little, "I'm Phichit. Phichit Chulanont. Nice to meet you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Streets  
> [2] Alliance between France and Great Britain signed in 1904  
> [3] Historic district in Paris, famous for being a colourful and active commercial area, with a clothing specialisation.  
> [4] A typical French pub, serving quick and usually not expensive meals in a modest setting  
> [5] It was a ballroom in Paris, near the café “La Cloiserie des Lilas”.
> 
>  
> 
> Hi there. I’m not feeling at my best, blame it onto pollen allergy, but let’s try to put down some decent notes.  
> After all the events of last chapter, some tranquillity was due and Yuuri being in France was something I had planned since the very beginning. I love the Belle Epoque vibes and I tried my best to transmit them through the descriptions of the ambiences and the people. 
> 
> We had a come back (Emil) and some nice connections to characters already mentioned en passant. I may have already said this, but a trope I’m using is the “six grades of separation” theory. And, yes, coincidences in fictions aren’t always welcomed, but I believe one can break the writing rules from time to time.
> 
> A special thank to Liezel, who provided precious information about Parisian arrondissements, cafés and ballrooms. At the beginning I wanted to use the famous “Moulin de la galette”, but the description didn’t fit the purpose for which I needed it. 
> 
> I also started to illustrate randomly some fic scenes. You can find my attempts here
> 
> As always, [ Curlavski](http://curlavski.tumblr.com) and [ Dev_Writes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dev_Writes) are my dear betas and I love them! 
> 
> As always my ask box, mail, DM, whatever is always open. Come to say hello at [ gwen-chan](http://gwen-chan.tumblr.com)  
> You want to scream into my ask? Cool. You want to chat? Double cool. You want to leave a long detailed analysis about a detail you noticed and you believe it will be important? Sign me the fuck up.  
> You afraid about your English skills? Hey, English is not my first language either. 
> 
> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * Constructive criticism
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> The author replies to comments
> 
> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I’m reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example), feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!“


	8. Ballotté

**Ballotté**

The ballet room was immersed in an eerie silence, the only sounds being the occasional thud of a cane against wood, a stern correction, and twenty exhausted danseurs’ breathing. 

Droplets of sweat ran in streams down Victor’s back, enough to make his shirt stick to his skin. 

It was a hot day, the room stuffy, air heavy. Cruel blades of sun hit the dancers’ face.

It was not common for Victor to train with others, but since his return to St. Petersburg, Mariinsky’s director had been clear about the conditions for him to be re-admitted into the ballet company. As ballet master Feltsman had later explained, in between long lectures about how irresponsible and egotistical Victor had been, as much as he was a terrible person with no considerations for the either the theatre nor his colleagues, Victor was still Mariinsky best danseur. His presence and charisma weren’t things the theater could easily substitute.

"But don’t believe you are special," ballet master Feltsman had reprimanded him soon after. 

In the end, Victor had been re-admitted into the company without much fuss, thanks to his skills and his excellent reputation with the public. But to assure he would stay as humble as it was necessary, he would have to train with the others.

"Keep that leg higher, Nikiforov," Yakov Feltsman called, almost en passant, with a distracted tone, before giving a vague praise to a danseur some heads ahead in the line. 

Victor gritted his teeth but obeyed nonetheless, lifting the leg as high as he could. He knew ballet master Feltsman was doing it on purpose, criticising every step he had taken since the class had begun for nothing but conveying a message. Otherwise, he would have noticed the terrible angle of another dancer’s leg - the one in front of Victor. 

The clock struck the new hour.

"Alright, enough,"

At Master Feltsman’s command, twenty legs were slowly lowered down on the ground, in a choir of relieved sighs. In no time the room emptied, all the dancers exiting in a messy queue to leave space for another class.

Yakov called Victor back.

"Lilia wants to talk with you," was all the ballet master said, and Victor swore he heard a note of concern in his voice. 

"She waits for you in the ballet room on the first floor."

"Understood."

Lilia Baranovskaya was tending to a class of young ballerina **s** , busy with learning a new step. She acknowledged Victor’s presence with a single, almost imperceptible nod of her chin. A couple of girls in the back started giggling, each eying Victor while blushing and biting their lips. Despite his foul mood, Victor hadn’t the heart to not flash them a smile. 

"Voronova, Osokiva, pay attention," Lilia reprimanded them. "Victor, can you wait outside? I’ll talk with you in a minute," she asked with her cold but quiet tone that was impossible not to obey. Victor was no exception.

When the girls exited the class, Victor was sitting in the aisle, his back lazily against the wall. He heard them chatting and giggling, hiding blushing faces. 

Lilia called him back inside the now-empty ballet room.

"I talked with the director," she started immediately, and Victor could have sworn, again, to hear a note of guilt in her voice, like a mother that would do everything to not reprimand a mischievous son.

"He believes you should be kept away from the scenes for a while, to protect the theatre’s reputation. You know how rumours are quick to circulate."

"This is -" Victor opened his mouth to reply, but Lilia Baranovskaya interrupted him. 

"I told him keeping the most popular danseur in the city away from the scenes will do nothing but harm our theatre."

Victor relaxed his shoulders a bit, not even aware up to that moment of the tension in them. If there had been a chair, he would’ve already flopped down.

"In the end the director had to agree with me, but on one condition."

"Meaning?" It was so hard for Victor to keep his voice humble and respectful. Despite the period of prison, he couldn’t help his tongue, though with time he had learnt to bite it.

"I have to demote you. The director would’ve liked you to be a coryphée, but reasoned with him. A former premier danseur cannot be a coryphée. You’ll be a soloist," Lilia continued, making it clear by tone and posture the decision had already been made with no possibility to change it, if not for the worst.

Victor supposed if anyone else had brought the news, he would have had a harder time keeping calm. Despite Madame Baranovskaya's reputation for being stern to the point of cruelty, she had taught him from a young age and watched him grow as both a man and a dancer. Something about that brought a sense of calmness to Victor's mind, albeit a very small one.

"And who will become the premier danseur?"

"That is a choice we have yet to make."

It sounded like a dismissal and Victor took it as such **,** bowing his head ever so slightly in acknowledgement as a feeling he couldn’t yet identify bubbled up in his chest. But Lilia called him back, every traces of sternness gone from her voice. She sounded tired, all of sudden.

"If it were for me, I would have acted differently. But I have to protect the theatre."

"Yes, I understand."

It tormented him as he walked home.

For all his life, Victor had never reflected on what it truly meant to be a premier danseur rather than a simple soloist. 

Sometimes being in the spotlight was even more of a burden than an advantage, when ballet masters made him train until he almost broke. Every single gesture must be nothing but perfect, for a negative performance would translate badly on the theatre.

But he also loved the fame, loved the public and the moment the entire salle fell into an agape silence for something unexpected he did. Above all, he knew how good he was, and false modesty wasn’t a phrase in his vocabulary. 

It was Friday, and when Victor raised his head from his feet, he noticed they had brought him to the usual tearoom by sheer muscle memory, the road lost in Victor’s thoughts. 

Since Yuuri’s expulsion, Victor had stopped frequenting the environ, blaming it on both lacks of mood and company. With Yuuri and Chris gone and Mila busy with housework, and now that Vanya was at the front and Dimitry busy with his studies, the old group had disbanded. Sometimes Georgi sat at the table with him, and once it had been young Plisetsky’s turn, but the subtle rivalry and difference of opinion was too big to truly enjoy their company behind a polite façade.

That day it was young Plisetsky Victor spotted in a corner of the tearoom, a tiny slice of cake before him and a cat in his lap. He sat down across the table without asking for permission.

"I was waiting for someone," Yuri protested at the sudden invasion, lips pursed.

"A friend? Someone in that group of yours?" Victor replied in a whisper, almost amused at seeing Yuri’s face changing colour. Though Yuri had never directly admitted of being part of some intelligentsia movements, it was clear he hadn't helped Yuuri alone.

"Is there any news?" he continued, getting directly to the point - news about Yuuri being warned of the most recent setbacks and news about Yuuri’s current whereabouts since it had come to Victor's ear he wasn't in Geneva anymore.

Some days prior, Plisetsky had intercepted Victor on the way to the post office. When Victor had admitted it was for Yuuri, Yuri had scolded him profusely about his inability to be careful for his own good. It was ridiculous how Victor couldn't see every his move was under a careful watch, starting from his mail.

He had snatched the envelope from Victor’s hand with a sudden movement and muttered he would take care of it himself. 

"Not yet," Yuri huffed, stretching his arms behind his back. The cat meowed in indignation at the sudden movement and jumped onto the floor, running outside the tearoom.

"Is he yours?" Victor commented, following the last glimpse of the cattail disappearing outside the door.

"Not exactly. Don't worry, he can manage. Now, as much as you continue pestering me, I still don't have any news. Nor I can give you the details," Yuri anticipated Victor's question. 

Victor's lips curled in a frown, soon hidden behind the cup of tea. He wasn't to blame if he was worried about Yuuri. It made him sad to imagine Yuuri waiting, and he was eager to give him an explanation as soon as possible. He should have felt secure, knowing Yuuri was safe and sound in Switzerland; but something inside him was tingling a warning. The bell had been ringing since his courting letters disappeared.

"Just make sure to accelerate things," he reminded Yuri.

It took a few days before Victor's request finally received a different response. 

The relief had a brief life, the news bringing more problems than certainties. 

Above all, Yuuri wasn't in Geneva anymore; nor He was in Switzerland, for that matter. For one week he had waited for Victor, and Victor could only imagine how hard it must have been for Yuuri to watch the time pass with the worry rising as yet another sunset came without a sign of his beloved’s arrival.

Even worse, it pained him Yuuri could not yet hear his explanation, not because he wished to justify himself, but because he wanted to provide Yuuri with that relief he couldn't give to him in person. 

He wished to hold his hands, kiss his knuckles and simply say, "Sorry, I'm late".

In any case, Yuuri had left Switzerland for France (Paris, to be precise), attracted, according to Mr. Giacometti, by an offer of work at the Opera. Victor pinched the bridge of his nose. He had talked about Paris to Yuuri here and there, in the rare lazy afternoons where they took pleasure in strolling in the snow-covered streets of St. Petersburg, goofy in insisting of walking with their arms looped around the other's hip, until Yuuri started to lament the excessive cold and dragged Victor into the nearest tearoom.

December had been a wonderful month, and for Victor’s birthday they had gone skating, Yuuri as good on the ice as he was on stage. 

Victor shook his head to bring himself back to the present. Yuuri being in Paris had both advantages and detriments. Paris was a lively city, multicultural and in Victor's memory welcoming; but France was also allied with the Russian Empire, and Victor doubted this hadn’t brought some Okhrana agents to wander the French capital. 

On the contrary, he suspected the government long-hand had extended all the way across Europe. Notwithstanding, Paris was still, in theory, a better place than others.

If only he had written to Yuuri sooner or Yuuri had waited a few more days, Victor could have provided suggestions to make Yuuri’s stay in the Paris better; but maybe Yuuri wouldn't have felt safe enough to communicate his decision via letter.

After all, Victor had learnt it only because Yuri Plisetsky had sent someone to Geneva, to knock directly at the Giacometti’s door, where the last plea Yuuri had left was to warn Victor. How selfless of his Yuuri to be in foreign land, leaving with nothing more than a suitcase and a promise of work, without even knowing where he could sleep, and yet caring to soothe his worries. If only he had left an address

***

A natural consequence of knowing Yuuri’s whereabouts, no matter how vague, was, in Victor’s mind, the desire to find a way to contact him. However, young Plisetsky was adamant in his refusal to help Victor in what he defined as nothing but a foolish plan. 

As Victor should have known, Paris was a city too big to find someone in brief time, especially if the person had all the intentions to not be found. Yuri's connaissances no doubt had better things to do than sift through Parisian _rues_ to find Victor's lover. The Opera may be a starting point, but calling them was out of question, and Yuri had no intentions to repeat the Geneva experience, no matter how much Victor whined and pleaded. He won't have moved a finger further until Victor could provide him with a full and precise address. 

"Yuuri will never give it."

"Then, Victor Alekseyevič, I'm afraid you'll have to wait."

Victor gritted his teeth, careful though to not further express his dismay. He had never liked to wait and was at times impatient to a fault, even.

But he would wait if he couldn't do anything more. 

***

_Dear Vitya,_

_I hope this letter find you in a good condition, despite from what I learnt you did not lose time in putting yourself into troubles; though, from the little I heard, I could say this time you are not the one to blame._

_In any case, I bring you good news as our mutual friend has finally sneaked his head outside of his hiding spot. I guess I am taking a risk on his behalf to write his exact whereabouts in a letter, but I had to communicate this piece of information to you someway. Otherwise, what kind of friend would I be?_

_Take care of yourself,_

_Chris_

_P.S I tried to call you, but received no answer. You know, it is in moments like this that your dear telephone could come in handy._

Victor spent the following days in persuading Yuri Plisetsky, who never missed an opportunity to remind him of how pathetic he had become, to provide him with a safe way to communicate with Yuuri. If by pestering like a whiny child or promising to reveal his dance secrets, something to which Plisetsky wasn't immune despite his efforts to hide it, Victor pressured Yuri like a hungry hunter with its prey. He even threatened to leave St. Petersburg.

Victor insisted so persistently that eventually Yuri could nothing but to oblige, not because he cared for his "stupid, silly love," but to avoid Victor risking endangering them all once again with his "uttermost stupid behaviour," as Yuri had so graciously put it.

"I knew you had a soft heart," Victor thanked him, unable to help a subtle inch of teasing in his voice. As much as he wanted to deny the evidence, Yuri Plisetsky, in the rebellious rage that came with his young age, cared for them. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have reason to help Yuuri escape from the jaws of a trap ready to snap.

"I know a person. A person who can consign your letters," Yuri sighed, voice barely audible through his gritted teeth.

A couple days later the meeting happened in an anonymous flat, which Victor would’ve believed to have been abandoned for ages if the key hadn’t turned into the lock with the easiness of a well-oiled and constantly used door. Yuri’s man was already in the kitchen, sat at the table and busy eating a rich meat sandwich whose grease dripped down his chin and dirty shirt collar. 

Something inside Victor recoiled almost instinctively at the sight. That was the sight of a man who couldn't be trusted to keep his head on at all times, but if Yuri had chosen him, he had to be good. The feeling subsided as soon as reason came to fight instincts away.

After years spent in putting on a mask, among people who each hid their own self behind a persona, Victor knew better than to judge someone by appearance and habits. Uncle Misha, for example, had a great appetite and sometimes his manners were not particularly refined, but he was one of the best men Victor had ever known. 

"Sergej Anatolič, you will end up choking on that sandwich," Yuri announced their presence. Sergej all but raised an eye in his direction, manoeuvring both bread and meat in his mouth as if to make each bite as succulent as possible. He washed it down with a dense, black tea. He gestured them to sit down, which Yuri did with ease in a displaced pose. Victor’s chair had a stain in the middle, so he sat on the edge. When Sergej offered them that strong tea of his, it was only for Yuri’s harsh nudge in the ribs he didn’t refuse.

The tea turned out to be nauseatingly sweet, as if Sergej had tried to correct the bad infusion time with an insane amount of jam.

“Sergej retrieved Yuuri’s belongings. I would trust him with my life,” Yuri assured.

"So, you need me to consign letters," Sergej finally addressed the subject a handful of minutes later, cleaning his lips with a lurid handkerchief.

"Yes. To my beau, in France. He had -" Victor began to explain, ignoring the stares from Plisetsky which he was sure were meant to indicate the need to leave out every useless detail; but if Yuri had chosen this man, he has to be trusted. Thus, Victor didn’t see a reason as to keep how important Yuuri was to him a secret. On the contrary, it was of uttermost importance that Sergej understood this detail.

"Problems with the Okhrana. Yes, Yura told me everything," Sergej concluded the sentence. 

Victor forced himself to drink another sip of that incredibly sweet tea before asking, "Can you do it?"

"Sure, but for a price. It’s dangerous, and I would use my time in better ways than consigning some letters between two lovers." Sergej poured himself another cup, which he chugged in one single sip. "But Yura is a friend."

Victor suppressed a chuckle at the thought of the disgusted face every single ballet master would’ve made in discovering with what kind of people a student of the Imperial School frequented.

"I must thank him."

Yuri could be a friend, but Sergej Anatolič wouldn’t have moved a finger without having previously been paid, which made other legitimate doubts on his good faith surge within Victor. Still, it seemed to be the only option available, the dangerous request justified the need of compensation, and Victor would have flattened down a mountain if that helped him in being with his Yuuri once again.

"Money is not a problem," Victor assured, lips curling in the usual smile for when he needed to charm someone. Even without taking from the Nikiforovs’ private finances, he was rich on his own. The price, when it was communicated, was high, but not as much as Victor had feared at first.

For security reasons, in the vague possibility Victor would be arrested and questioned again, the exact methodology and role of Sergej weren’t explained. They only told him Sergej had a special talent for travelling without being noticed.

"Do you have paper and a pen?" Victor reprised the discourse once the price had been set. "I would like to not lose time," he added. Sergej got up, rummaged through a drawer in the cupboard, and retrieved some papers, stained with ink, and a fountain pen whose cap had been completely chewed up.

“But be quick," young Plisetsky warned. To Victor’s amusement, he wrinkled his nose like a cat sniffing food in the air. "Seriy, do you have any more of that sandwich?"

"Yura, you are a dancer," Victor reminded him.

"I'm still growing," Yuri replied, as Sergej pushed under his nose a smaller version of his sandwich with a giant smile. Yuri took the first bite, never breaking eye contact with Victor.

_My dearest, Yuuri,_

_I don't know where to begin. These weeks have been very hard, I will not hide it, but don't believe all I want is to complain to you. Not when I'm sure you are in a much worse situation than me. At least I'm home, and I still have my work and my family, the support of my father and Alina; at least I can sleep in my bed, and if I'm feeling down, Makkachin is a cure-all. Notwithstanding, I cannot hide how these things dull in comparison with the time I used to spend with you and could still spend if the rules of this country were a bit different._

_I need to confess something, as I cannot stand anymore the sense of guilt, though what I did was for a good reason. I lied about you and about what you are for me. If ever what I said when under interrogation came to your ear, be sure it was all lies. I told them things that made my heart bleed, told them I didn't know you and you were nothing to me._

_Never think you are nothing. Never think that you are nothing to me. You are the person I love, who I'll always love, and every moment we are apart is torture._

_I miss your smile and watching you dance when you think about nothing but the music. I miss looking into your eyes and holding you in my arms and I miss the feeling that, even if we couldn't meet for a day, we would meet the day after. I miss the freedom we had._

_But now I have at least the joy of being able to communicate with you once again until this war ends and the storm passes._

_I will wait for your response. Just give your letter to the man who will consign this._

_With Love,_

_Vitya_

Victor kept his hopes up while he awaited Yuuri's reply, which, according to Yura and Sergej Anatolic, would be delivered soon. Though he tried not to let it distract him, he found himself thinking about it even as he practiced his ballet. At the end of a particularly difficult day at the theater Victor, found Mila sitting in his father’s private studio, a thick book open before her. 

"So you truly want to learn how to do this business," Victor commented, sitting down the nearest chair, still in his sweaty training clothes. His whole body sagged in relief. Mila turned her head toward him, her messy red braid swinging down her back with the movement.

"Yes," she exclaimed, closing the book with a sharp gesture, "it's very interesting and clear."

"I've always found it to be confusing," Victor confessed, rolling his shoulder back to ease the remaining tension in his muscles. Yakov had made him practice lifts with a ballerina in the company all day. "But I'm happy you are enjoying it."

Recently, Mikhail Babichev had asked Aleksey if, while his eldest son was away, he could teach the business to his daughter. Mila was smart and fast with numbers, on top of being tenacious and quick-tongued.

"Yes. Sometimes I think this has been the only good thing the war brought."

Mila's voice almost died on the last strands of her affirmation as if she was confessing a sin too big to be pronounced. After all, she was admitting a part of her to be glad for the war and the fact that Vanya had been recalled in the army.

 _"Just in case,"_ Uncle Misha had said, which Mila recounted to Victor, those few words carrying more meaning than what they had the courage to affirm. It was bad luck to think about possible negative events. As if they had read each other's mind, both Mila and Victor knocked on wood.

"I'm sure Vanya is doing well. Any news from him?" Victor asked, absentmindedly patting Makkachin, who had come to lie at his owner's feet. "Do you want me to ask Alina for a snack?" he added.

"I've already eaten, thanks," Mila refuted. "To reprise the discourse, my brother is fine. At least this is what he wrote in his letters, though -" Mila lowered her voice to a whisper, "I'm not sure how much of his words are truly sincere. Things don't seem to go that well."

Indeed, despite the efforts the government was making to hide the real situation of the troops, it couldn't avoid letting slip here and there how much the Imperial Army was suffering for lack of preparation and resources. The war consequences appeared clear and strong in the sudden rise in prices of food and other commodities.

Neither the Nikiforovs nor the Babichevs had been affected yet, but Victor was attentive enough to catch the change. 

"I also suppose you won't go to Italy this summer," Victor commented after a while, after having gone to grab a light snack from the kitchen pantry. Mila shook her head.

"I'm afraid not. It's possible that Vanya will have a permit this summer, and I want to be home. Even if he doesn’t return, I wouldn't feel sure to leave mama and papa alone with the situation at hand."

"I'm sure your brother will be fine. If he’s still the fighter I remember."

The friendship between the Nikiforovs and the Babichevs was a long one, finding its roots in the younghood of both Aleksey and Mikhail, since they had been taken under the same protective wing of a mutual distant relative, the same old woman who later became both Victor and Ivan's godmother. When Mila was born, nine years later, such honour had fallen on Aleksey, who had been like a second father to the little girl. And when Victor’s mother had died, Natasha Babicheva had done everything in her power to support the child and his father.

Victor still remembered how it was when he, Mila, and Vanya were little and no Sunday passed without either him being a guest in the Babichevs’ house or vice-versa.

"Will you stay for dinner?" Victor asked eventually, still on the wave of memories.

"No, I don't think so. You should take a bath. You stink!" Mila laughed in response, fingers playing with her braid.

"I don’t stink that much," Victor protested, twisting his head and raising an arm to sniff at the elbow.

"You do," Mila laughed, making a face and twisting both mouth and nose.

Then the amusement faded from her eyes, and her face became serious again.

"You never told me what happened during that week. I've heard papa talking with uncle Lyosha, but they were vague."

Victor’s voice got stuck in his throat.

"Now I truly think I have to take a bath."

With that, he hastily left the room. Moments later he had already locked himself in the bathroom. 

The Okhrana questioning was still a fresh wound, a hit, which had filled Victor with more fear than he was willing to admit. Some nights he woke up drenched in cold sweat from a dream with a nightmarish train launched at full speed toward the icy cold ends of the Empire.

Victor threw his head back in the bathtub. He knew it wasn't right to keep Mila in the dark, for she was grown up and part of the family; but it would only worry her and put her in potential danger.

Besides, swallowing down his own feelings was a talent Victor had long mastered.

"It's nothing, Ljudochka. Really," Victor assured her when he returned to the studio, an hour later, damp hair dripping on his home clothes. Mila threw him a dubious glance but didn't insist.

"Alright, I trust you," she bid him goodbye with a quick kiss on the cheek. "Take care."

"I will."

***

 

_My dear Vitya,_

_receiving news from you brings me great joy. I'm saddened by the situation at hand, but I trust it will not last for much longer._

_As for me, I'm fine. This city is more welcoming than expected._

_Forgive me if I don't say more, but better be safe than sorry._

_Yours,_

_Yuuri_

When the letter arrived, carried by Sergej Anatolič's hands, dirty with ink and grease, Victor was overcome with the urge to hug both Sergej and Yuri. Though, the strange, unpleasant smell of the former and a glare from the latter were enough to make him change his mind. - for few seconds, at least. Moments later, Victor strangled young Plisetsky in a hug of gratitude. Victor was so happy that the fact Yuuri’s handwriting looked a bit different than usual was pushed to the back of his mind. 

If only things could be as bright. On the contrary, the more time passed, the more Victor was starting to believe the theatre administration intended to make his life so difficult he would eventually be forced to leave the company.

If it had been limited to the extra training, Victor could have sustained it. Though he continued to believe Ballet master Feltsman was doing it more out of vengeance than for real ballet purposes; but it was still training and Victor was used to cold, severe teachers who accepted nothing but the uttermost perfection, from hair to toe. No, the real problem was outside the ballet rooms, where it seemed his fame and abilities had stopped being considered important altogether. 

The day before, Yakov had strongly advised him against auditioning for Albrecht in the Giselle, suggesting it was better for him to pursue a less visible part on stage. Victor had listened with the words entering one ear and exiting the other the moment they were pronounced.

Today, the director himself wanted him in his office. Victor had developed a distaste for him, and he didn't even bother with changing from his sweaty training clothes before knocking at the door. If someone was thinking he was lazing off, this would have been proof of the contrary.

"Did you want to see me?" Victor asked the ritual question. It took some minutes of small talk and pleasantries before the director could get to the point. In the meantime, Victor had had the time to sit down and accept a cup of tea.

"I've heard news from Moscow. From the Bolshoi," the director finally said, clicking his spoon against the porcelain cup. "You left quite the impression on Aleksander Gorsky."

"I am honoured," Victor replied. For once he wasn't pretending.

"He wondered if you could join him as _regisseur_ at the Bolshoi. He wasn't much older than you when he began and you -," the director continued, He would have gone on with his explanation if Victor hadn't dared to stop him mid-sentence.

"Is this an order?"

The director's face became a sudden mask of gravity. "No," he eventually said, almost syllabling the small word, as if it was taking a great effort for him to say it. "Madame Baranovskaya believes it would damage the theatre reputation. The public, apparently, loves you."

It took all of Victor's effort to neither let his lips curl in a smug smile nor his brow frown. Being popular with St. Petersburg balletomanes, which pleased him, was far from being a novelty, and it shouldn't have been even for the theatre director. Instead, he was acting as if a completely new information had suddenly fallen before his otherwise ignorant eyes. 

Victor guessed a director had more important things to do.

"Is there anything else, sir?" 

"No. You are free to go."

For a moment he seemed about to say something, but he remained silent. 

 

With an additional bow, Victor walked out the office, not letting the smile on his lips falter until he had closed the door behind his back. 

Only then did he notice the slight tremble in his hands, almost imperceptible for a person who, unlike him, wasn't trained to know and control every fibre of his body.

The director's words still echoed in his head. Transferring students and staff from one theatre to another was common practice, and often what was presented as a prize was in reality a way to get rid of some undesirable presence. It was something Victor was familiar with and in a year only, since his return, he had seen at least two teachers transferred from Mariinsky to the Bolshoi.

As the director had put it, being moved to Moscow would give him the possibility to work shoulder to shoulder with Aleksander Gorsky, a perspective which, Victor had to admit , was intriguing - even more, if, by doing so, he could have a closer look at _Soblazneniye printsa._

At the same time, however, Victor could smell the consolation prize from a mile away, like a little sweet launched before an animal’s nose to put him out of the way. Without considering his distaste for Moscow. If a week had already been torture, Victor didn't dare imagine how a year there - or more - would be.

Above all, if they transferred him to another city, it would become almost impossible to contact Yuuri, given how difficult it was already. If anything, it was enough motivation to resist any further change.

A crowd of giggling girls forced Victor to shift to the side of the aisle, interrupting his course of thoughts. He flashed them a polite smile and couldn't help being amused by the blush spreading on their cheeks. At his right was an empty ballet room, something that had always had the power to attract him like a siren’s call. It had been a while since he had actually trained alone, without a ballet master barking corrections or other danseurs watching his every move.

A few moments later Victor was doing warm-up stretches on the floor.

Dancing at Mariinsky was one of the few things he had left, and voices in the back in his head were cruelly whispering somebody would take it from him at any moment. 

Victor knew being expelled from a company was not the end of the world, especially when he had been the first willing to renounce to it in the name of love; it didn't mean he would never dance again. But there weren’t many ballet companies around the world, and a danseur without a stage was as good as dead. 

Victor's mind raced back again to the conversation with the director, giving new glimpses of hidden meaning. It showed clear and bright how those words contained a thread, a warning that if he didn’t behave, Mariinsky would turn their back on him. The bar was set higher than ever.

Victor practiced in the ballet room until the sun set behind the horizon and the night fell on the city. At some point, he had found himself recreating a choreography for _Soblazneniye printsa_ and thus decided he might as well indulge in it, though dancing a pas de deux alone was almost an aberration, and when he wrapped his arms around thin air and not a warm body, tears destined not to fall filled his eyes. 

 

_My darling,_

_I just avoided being transferred to Moscow. The prospect scares me, though it pales in comparison to not being able to see you ever again. I would accept a million years of exile in that city if it could avert that._

_Mariinsky theatre is not the same without you. I understand it now, and looking back I think there has always been something missing in my life prior to your arrival. I was a man with sight problems looking at the world without a good pair of glasses._

_Last year, this time, we had started rehearsing together, still strangers to one another. No, strangers is not the right word. But there was still so much I didn't know about you, about the real you, not the charming person who danced with me at the party. And then I discovered how charming you can be._

_How strange and different things are now. Sometimes, I catch a glimpse of black hair in church on Sunday and I cannot help to think of you._

_Or when I'm practising alone and, hearing someone on the threshold, I fear to turn as the ephemeral hope to see you lavishes over me. I pray that when I'll turn, my wishes will be granted; but it never happens._

_Looking back, I wonder if things would have evolved differently if I haven't been in Moscow at the time. If nothing else, at least I could kiss you goodbye._

_I'm glad to hear you are doing well. You may not have noticed it, but there are many people who are drawn to you, and from it you receive a new perspective on life._

_Most of all, never forget I'll always be with you in spirit. After all, you did steal a piece of my heart, to always carry in your pocket._

_I miss you every day, from the moment I wake up to the moment I go to sleep. If I knew it was temporary and had a deadline, I would probably survive the wait. However, as I do not, the seconds transform in hours and the hours in days and time slow down until it stops and I fear I will never see you again._

_But I must not abandon myself to discomfort. Instead, I'll try to smile and pray for the end of the war, for then I'll be able again to have you in my arms._

_I love and always will love you._

_Vitya_

_Dear Vitya,_

_I miss you every day, and seeing your man with a new letter is the sunray in a grey day._

_If I have your heart, then I'll conserve it with the uttermost care, until the day I'll be able to give it back to you._

_Love,_

_Yuuri_

Victor crumbled that piece of paper, not even a proper letter, in his fist. If he closed his eyes and used some imagination, he could almost convince himself to be holding Yuuri's warm hand instead of cold, dirty paper. 

Victor flopped onto the bed, head sunk in the soft pillow and covered his eyes with a forearm, sighing in a way he would be the first to describe as dramatic. So much effort for a so little answer. Unfortunately, he was used to it.

In Victor's experience, Yuuri had always been a reserved person, both in gestures and words. To think,it had taken ten of his letters for Yuuri to start answering. In retrospect, Victor had to admit his good star had shone brightly in those days when Yuuri could have very well asked him to stop pestering him. But he hadn't. At the same time, he never wrote letters longer than a page.

This last letter, still, looked brief even by Yuuri's standard, as if he had written it in haste - which probably corresponded to reality, as Sergej Anatolič didn't seem the man willing to wait a sweet time to receive an answer. Yes, that and Yuuri's tendency to not disclose his inner feelings were likely to explain why his latest letters had been so brief. It left a bitter taste in Victor's mouth, the same of a disappointment when something craved for a long time turned out different than expected; and yet it was something. 

 

With the arrival of June, the theatre announced that, in light of its success the previous year, _Soblazneniye printsa_ would be staged again, entering with full rights in the repertoire. The roles would be the same from the year before, with the few inevitable exceptions. Sofja Bulgakova was confirmed for the Seducer part and Victor, despite knowing it could have been worse, couldn't set aside the fear people would forget Yuuri's performance altogether, obliterated from the records.

Finally, as the theatre had no intention of letting Victor dance the part, someone else to interpret the Prince had to be be found. The company welcomed the decision with dejection and disdain, though the feelings of solidarity never went past a façade of circumstances. Even more, Victor would have been stupid to not notice how well a few people received the piece of news.

It was still an important role, one which they could never aspire to attain in normal circumstances, and all of sudden it was available, as even Victor’s intended substitute for the past year had left the theatre.

Eventually, the theatre arranged a new audition, the result of which left more people angry than the number it satisfied. Even more considering how, from the rumours, Madame Baranovskaya's opinion had been set aside prior the final decision. 

"This is bullshit," Yuri screamed, completing ignoring Victor's by now half-heartedly attempts at hushing him. He stomped his foot on the wooden stage, hands on lean hips and brow furrowed.

"Yakov says it is for the best," Victor replied in a monotonous tone as if repeating a well-memorized school lesson. 

"Yes and I hate cats," Yura snorted. He started to pace around, arms up in the air or drawing big circles in tune with his feelings. Victor couldn't help but note how every gesture was graceful despite the anger. "Don't get me wrong, it's refreshing not to see you in the spotlight. A lesson in humility. But not like this," Yuri continued, pointing a finger in Victor's direction, aiming at his chest. 

"What if you had the role?" Victor inquired.

"I'm too young and you know it. And if you believe I would like to win like this, you are terrible at judging people." 

He flopped down on the stage, crossing his legs in butterfly stretch, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. "I would understand if it had been Georgi. That man is even worse than you when it comes to annoying people with their feelings. Remember how it was last year with that Opera singer? Oh, speaking of the Devil."

Georgi had just stuck his head into the stage room. He walked with a new confidence since he had gotten his promotion from soloist to premiere danseur, which for the first time in ages put him above Victor, albeit not at the same level of Victor’s golden days. Another danseur, indeed, was chosen for the rare honour of being a premier danseur noble.

As reported by him, ballet master Feltsman needed to have a little chat with Victor in his office. It must have been another reprimand for sure or a new attempt to convince him to leave for Moscow, which would never happen, not in a million years .

Victor took a deep breath for patience and bid his goodbye to the others. 

_My darling,_

_it is becoming increasingly difficult for me to continue smiling. The one I wear is nothing but a hollow mask that hurt my face for all the time I must keep up this façade._

_From where to start?_

_Maybe the fact that, for security reasons, our mutual contact refuses to deliver more than two letters a month. No, it is not even true, as I would be already happy with receiving from you two letters a month. But to avoid raising suspicions, sometimes only a week passes before a letter and the answer - blissful and joyful days - and sometimes a whole month._

_Like this time._

_Things at the theatre are not better. After having been demoted to soloist and stripped down from the possibility to dance solos on stage, I believed my creation wouldn't at least been touched._

_I was mistaken. Whether this is a revenge on my person or to truly defend the theatre’s reputation, I do not know._

_In any case, the issue is that SoblazneniyePrintsa, my ballet, our ballet, will be staged again, and neither you nor I will be on stage._

_Indeed, this year the “Prince” will be interpreted by the new premier danseur noble at the company - I admit his name escapes my mind at the moment. I saw him dance a couple times, though, and while I must admit he is skilled in ballet, he could not show love to save his life. Miss Bulgakova was not happy in the slightest._ _As for_ _Young Plisetsky, he was so angry when he heard the news, as much as I am caught in sadness and disbelief._

_I feel like I've lost a son. I feel like everything is slipping through my fingers, my work, my love, my town. Everything. And in all of that, above all, I can blame no one but this country. It doesn't matter that it was Japan to attack the Russian fleet. Not with the government we have._

_I guess I was blind before, but now I'm seeing the setbacks._

_Yakov is right. The years in France have changed me. You have changed me. I would burn down this country for you._

Victor held the fountain pen so hard nails dig into palms, drawing blood. A spot of ink dropped on the paper, like a dark tear. He sighed and shook his head.

_Maybe burning a whole country is excessive. But believe that, if I had to choose between you and my country, I wouldn't have any hesitation. Never._

_Forgive me for the gloomy mood of this letter. I hope, no, I promise that the next one will be more cheerful._

_Love,_

_Vitya_

 

The more days went by without any signs of things improving, the faster Victor lost his grip on hope. He stopped pouring accurate descriptions of his misfortunes in his letters to Yuuri, as they were starting to get repetitive and he had perceived a certain coldness from Yuuri latest reply, but this didn't mean life had turned toward the bright side all over again. Quite the contrary. Days slugged one after the other, each similar to the precedent, with the growing sensation of a silvery cage closing around him. Even his St. Petersburg, his beloved hometown, had started to tire him, like a favourite food after having been eaten one too many times.

At the theatre, where his full potential should've been continuously expressed and polished, he was confined to working on a simple, background, group choreography that was an insult to his proficiency. Wherever he turned, he saw bad news, blowing from both the east and the west; bad news from the war front in the bay of Port Arthur, with no trace of sign the war may end, and bad news from Paris, as Sergej Anatolič claimed Yuuri was about to move again and thus asked for an increased amount of money.

On top of that, Makkachin had decided to use Victor's lucky charm, the one Yuuri had gifted him directly from a temple in Japan, as his new chewing toy. When Victor had managed to pry the dog's jaws open with the expertise of a dog owner, the katsumori was a slobbery mess of fabric. Makkachin’s teeth had even worked all the way to the internal prayer scroll, which hadn't survived long after. 

In Victor's opinion, it had all the criteria of a bad omen.

He had taken on the habit of knocking on wood at every opportunity and spending most of his time in ballet rooms with wooden floors and wooden ballet barre. In truth, it seemed like things could only worsen, and like a snowflake which would soon transform into an avalanche they certainly did, railing toward the point of disaster. 

_Dear Victor_

_I have an urgency to talk with you. I would do it at the theatre, but between preparing for shows and exams, I hardly have a moment free._

_I wait for you this Saturday afternoon at the usual tearoom._

_Yuri Plisetsky_

At the centre of his bedroom, Victor stood still with the letter still in hand for a good five minutes. The last time Yuri had delivered a letter to him, nothing good had come from it. It was almost as if the young boy had assumed the role of the bearer of bad news. 

Which is why Victor was taken aback by Yuri’s nonchalant demeanor when he spotted him in the tearoom on the day of their meeting.. The boy had already made himself at ease and was munching on a pastel-coloured pastila. It was a hot and wet day of late August, and Yuri had the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to the elbows. Victor too had opted for some of the lightest pieces of clothing he bought in Paris.

As soon as he spotted him, Yuri cut to the chase. "Sergej played us."

"Played?" Victor parroted back. He was about to deepen the question, but a waiter interrupted to ask if he wanted something. Once he ordered some chak-chak [1], he reprised, "Care to explain?"

"He played us. It was all a lie. The letters ... he never consigned them."

"But I have the answers," Victor countered.

"I have reason to believe they are false."

Victor frowned, picking a sticky chak-chak and biting it half-heartedly. "You are sure or just believe it?"

A thought suddenly popped up in the back of his mind, a dormant fire brought back to life, about how Yuuri’s handwriting had seemed a bit off in all the recent letters. It was neater and crisper, but Victor had eventually set the issue aside, telling himself people change their handwriting and it wasn’t anything worth noting.

"Both. I got suspicious suspicious when he asked you to double his payment, so I started following him and discovered a draft letter. A draft letter from a ‘Yuuri.’"

"I thought you trusted him."

A long silence followed the accusation. Yuri opened his mouth to reply but seemed to be at loss for words, and he just let his lips part on thin air. Victor may have been a terrible judge of character, but he could recognize the expression of a betrayed person.

"I trusted him. I liked his ideas, I thought he was different. But I was mistaken."

Vitor pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the sweets’ stickiness against his skin. Yuri was claiming it had been nothing but a scam. Yet, a part of Victor refused to believe it, because if it was true, the latest months would have been nothing and he couldn't stand the idea.

"Are you sure you aren't misinterpreting things?" he insisted. Yuri jolted to his feet, so fast he sent the chair falling on the floor.

"Chort poberi! Open your eyes. You first told me Yuuri's answer seemed strange. According to the latest news, they are. They are because they aren't his."

Yuri picked up the chair. "Come with me tomorrow morning," he eventually added, fixing his little ponytail with a nervous gesture.

"Tomorrow is Sunday," Victor pointed out. It pained him how only a year before the same affirmation would've had a different meaning. _Tomorrow is Sunday_. This he had told Yuuri, speaking about strolling after mass and eating lunch together. 

"Exactly. Sergej goes to church in the morning and while he is away we can sneak into his apartment."

Yuri drained the last drops of tea, throwing his head back, and set the porcelain down as if securing a deal. Victor wasn't yet convinced.

"I go to church too."

"Like me and every good citizen here. You can go in the evening. This is more important."

Victor lowered his gaze to a yellowish spot on the tablecloth in shame. He professed so openly his love for Yuuri but had doubts when it came to sacrifice going to church once. How ridiculous must it have seemed from an external eye.

"You're right. Tomorrow morning be it."

On Sunday morning, Victor woke up early, even earlier than usual, rolling in bed and burying his face in Makkachin's fur. The dog had jumped onto the bed during the night and claimed a good half. 

"Morning. Would you let your master pass?" Victor cooed, feeling under his chin the steady rumble of the dog’s snoring. Makkachin stirred in his sleep but in the end just stuck the head under a paw, not even cracking open an eye.

"I see, I'll pass from the other side," Victor laughed in a tone mocking offence, thankful his bed was not pushed against the wall. Summer sun rays filtered through a crack in the cornflower bluecurtains.

"Up early as usual," Alina greeted him, who had been up for hours now. "Are you planning to go to church dressed like that?" she added, pointing at the worn out trousers and kosovorotka. "With all the clothes you brought back from France."

While speaking, she set down his breakfast on the table, with shining bowls of crimson jam and butter for the bread. The boiling water in the copper samovar gurgled with a pleasing sound. Victor filled his mouth with a spoonful of kasha [2].

"I'm not going to church this morning. I have things to do. I was thinking I could accompany you this evening."

Alina stared at him in disbelief before muttering, "Right. I guess it can be done. Does your father know?"

"Not yet. I'm sure he won't mind," Victor waved away the woman's concerns. He took another spoonful of kasha and knocked out the black tea without even caring to sugar it. It burnt his tongue. 

The clock in the salon struck seven. There was no reason for him to be so in haste as the mass wouldn't start for another hour, and according to Yuri, it was improbable Sergej would leave home long before.

But a combination of habit and tension running under skin had made Victor open his eye almost before the rooster could sing. The meeting with Yuri was at eight thirty, thus Victor wondered how he could spend the time left. 

Maybe running through some routines would help him in dispelling nervous energy. 

"I'm going back to my bedroom," he announced, standing up, the rich breakfast barely touched.

"You didn’t even finish the kasha," Alina scolded him.

"You know, my diet," Victor apologised, kissing his njanja on the cheek.

A few minutes into the first series of plié in his bedroom, Victor's mind was already running toward what was about to happen; the possibility he had been fooled all that time; the fact Yuri was planning an intrusion. A jolt of pain shot through his thigh. With a sigh, Victor straightened his legs, stopping the routine at once. He had already enough troubles without a muscle injury because he couldn't focus on the moment. 

"It's no use, Makkachin," he whined in the dog’s direction. Makkachin continued to sleep peacefully and soundly.

"I see. No good luck from you. I'll keep this in mind."

In the corridor, Victor crossed paths with his father, who was yawning and rubbing his eyes, still in his pyjamas.

"Morning, Vitya," Aleksey greeted in a sleepy voice. 

"Morning," Victor said back. He replicated the same conversation he had already had with Alina, speaking fast and hoping his father wouldn't ask further questions.

"I'll be back for lunch," he assured, running toward the exit.

 

"Who would've thought that young count Plisetsky was a trespasser," Victor commented an hour later, leaning over Yuri, busy in cracking open the door lock. He kept an ear open to possible onlookers; but apparently, nobody was in the building, apart from themselves and someone old coughing a couple floors above.

"Don't call me young count. My blood doesn't mean anything," Yuri replied. He had his tongue stuck between teeth as he worked a hairpin into the lock.

"Now, could you do me the favour of being silent? I need to focus."

Passing up the opportunity for another brief joke, Victor closed his mouth at once and for the following long, excruciating minutes, the only sounds were their breathing and the noise of metal against metal.

"Done," Yuri whispered in celebration. 

The door gave way. Yuri squeezed inside the crack. Victor followed him, warier than he had been in a long time.

Yuri, on the contrary, seemed to know exactly what needed to be done. For all the night before, Victor had tossed in bed despite his best efforts, dreading the possibility that Yuri’s proof could be gone before they had the opportunity to find it. Yuri, however, had stopped his concerns before they could bloom in full.

"Did you receive a letter from Yuuri yet?"

"No."

"Then the draft must still be somewhere. Besides, Sergej is a perfectionist."

Victor had nodded, humming a noise of doubt. There was still the possibility Sergej had finished the forgery, as Yuri called it, and threw the draft in the trash. He wondered, in any case, if he would be able to distinguish a false from a truth. After all, he hadn't in months, so desperate to remain in his world of hopes that he became blind despite the evidence; because deep down he knew there was something wrong. 

"Victor, hurry."

Yuri's exclamation brought Victor back to reality. He rushed to the other room, where Yuri was holding a piece of paper in between thumb and index finger. On the table, there were a pen and a half-empty inkstand, as if Sergej had left them with the intention of coming back to finish the work sometime soon. Next to it, some sort of document on which Yuuri’s handwriting was noticeable at first sight.

Victor took the letter from Yuri's hand.

"Just like I told you," Yuri was saying. "Well, it isn't the draft I found, but you can see it yourself it's not Yuuri's letter, for God’s sake. I suppose it's the second draft." 

Victor peered down at the letter in his hands, almost forcing his eyes to see and stop running from reality. At first glance, the forgery was perfect, enough that a non-attentive eye, or one like his which refused to see, would never catch the deception; but the more Victor watched it, the more its defects came out, bright in the light. The letters were too perfect, each identical to the other, while Yuuri's Cyrillic had never been so good or consistent. On top of that, the letter was not finished. It started with a "My dear Vitya" but stopped mid-sentence, no trace of any signature at the bottom, as Sergej hadn't yet had time to finish it.

Victor's grip tightened on the letter, as he felt the floor tremble under his feet, so much he had to hold on the table edge to not fall. 

Everything he had believed in the previous months was nothing but a lie, a huge lie anybody else would have spotted. But he had been so desperate to believe that he became blind before the evidence. The implications were greater than his mind was ready to face. In those past months anything could have happened to Yuuri, his dear Yuuri; he could have fallen ill or worse. Victor shook his head with a jerking movement, before the thought could put roots in his mind.

"You were right," was all he could say in the end, shoulders slumping in defeat. "Now what?"

"Now, we wait," Yuri replied. 

"I hate to wait."

Still, they waited, feigning indifference as if they were rightful guests, but with senses on edge. They lay in wait. When the door clanked open, Yuri was the first to jump to his feet with a movement that reminded Victor of a cat. He wouldn't be surprised if Yura started hissing. He adjusted the elbow posed on the table and when he lifted his gaze, Sergej Anatolič was staring back at them.

"What is the meaning of this?"

In the corner of his eye, Victor saw Yuri with a dangerous smile on his face. He had the drafted letter held between his fingers with the nonchalance of a high-born woman holding a fan.

"I was about to ask you the same thing," Yuri replied in a forcefully calm voice. "I find this letter particularly interesting."

He started reading, " _But I am confident the autumn will bring ..._ What is it, were you so in haste you could not even let Yuuri finish the letter? Or maybe you were at loss for words?

Sergej didn’t answer and those seconds of silence were stronger than any other proof.

A deep pit opened in victor’s stomach, the change so sudden it made him nauseous. 

Then, anger rushed to rule his brain. Most people described anger as something hot, passionate, burning under their skin and destroying everything in a spark. But Victor's was cold, icy. Years spent controlling his emotions for public relation's sake must have frozen even his fury.

The room became crystal clear. Victor swooped in on Sergej. His hands closed on the man's collar. Before he could say anything, Victor pulled him up, holding him in a way that made Sergej’s breathing difficult. Curious how all the hours Yakov had made him practise lifts were now coming in hand.

"You, bastard," Victor hissed, spitting out the words.

"I trusted you."

"Too bad for you."

Sergei Anatolič's voice was broken, harsh, but his mocking expression and the flash of yellowish teeth, in the parody of a smile, were enough to cause in Victor feelings of vengeance that normally would made him recoil in fear. But there were things no one must touch, and the bond he and Yuuri shared was one of them.

"Why? Why did you do it?" Victor insisted. He barely registered Yuri's comment on the little usefulness of posing the question.

"I'm not a errand boy for two rich love-birds, **"** Sergei spat out, a thin strain of saliva rolling down his chin. "But money is money and there you were, spoiled, pampered and desperate. A goldmine."

"You disgust me," was all Victor managed to say in reply, an iceberg of outrage, the same he felt with the Okhrana, but magnified. 

Anger exploded. 

The Okhrana may have read his courting letters to Yuuri, his attempts to be charming and seductive; but Sergej, this scum of man, had read his words in his most vulnerable state, entering like a parasite in between himself and Yuuri. Victor tightened his grip so hard he was sure his knuckles had turned white. He tightened and tightened, holding Sergej suspended over the floor, ignoring the cramp slowly forming in his arm.

Something hit Victor in the small of his back. "Enough," Yuri said, kicking him again, "He is not worth a homicide. Put him down."

Victor’s first reaction was to turn and grab Yuri too, because it was also his fault and some of his arrogance could very well use a lesson. However, while Victor’s anger was cold and icy, it was also more prone to logic and reflection, enough to understand what objective what better to pursue.

Victor let Sergej go, throwing him across the floor. 

"I would’ve paid for your cause. I would’ve been happy to finance you" he spat out, hands trembling with fury. 

"Now," Yuri said, nodding to Victor to sit down, while Sergej massaged his throat, "where are Victor's letters?"

"I burnt them," Sergej replied without delay. But Victor was getting tired from the sudden outburst of anger, and all he wanted was to go home, close himself in his bedroom, and cuddle with Makkachin, since now his dog was almost the only one he could trust and with whom he wanted to spend his time. 

If Sergej was willing to collaborate, Victor was happy to give him the free floor. 

"And how can I know you are not lying again?" Yuri insisted.

"You are free to search. You already did." 

"Exactly. I'll do it again." 

While speaking these words, Yuri had already started to open drawers and cabinets in a clash of cutlery and wood. At some point he disappeared in the other room, not before having warned Victor to not commit homicide while he was away. 

From time to time his cries of "nothing, nothing" echoed in the apartment and for each, Sergej’s smug smile grew larger. It was a devilish smile, the kind able to haunt a person forever. 

"Where, where are they?" Yuri came back into the room, shouting his frustration. Victor pushed back the fringe from his forehead for no purpose than to keep his hands occupied, the same hands still twitching from the desire to grab Sergej again from the neck and smash his head against the nearest wall. 

It would be ugly. It would make anyone recoil. But now Victor needed nothing more than to be ugly, violent, and free.

He had spent so much time swallowing down any negative emotion, he could only throw them up. Or they would suffocate him.

"It’s no use," Victor said instead. "Not with such filth."

"Maybe with the right methods," Yuri threatened, surging in all his height to appear taller; but Victor put a hand on his shoulder and repeated, "Enough. Let’s leave this place." 

He again shifted his attention to Sergej, almost every trace of the previous fury disappeared from his face to leave space for a forced, almost charming smile as if Sergej was nothing but a rude fan. 

Next time you won’t be so lucky, it said.

By the time Victor walked back home, lunchtime had long passed, the table already cleaned and his father sat in an armchair in the living room with a book in hands. 

"Alina is still in the kitchen," Aleksey informed him, without stopping reading. 

"I'm not hungry," Victor replied. "Where's Makkachin?"

"In your room. I already walked him."

Victor thanked his father on the go, rushing to his bedroom.

He threw open the drawer under the vanity table, taking out the letters he received from Yuuri and knocking a couple of perfume bottles in the process. One rolled to the edge, stopping miraculously there, a hair from crashing on the floor.

Victor shuffled through the letters, old and new, real and false. Put next one to the other, despite the ability of Sergej’s forgery, the difference between the originals and the copies became painfully evident. Yet, he hadn't suspected, hadn't noticed. 

There was a tiny, almost imperceptible tear at the top of one of the false letters, which attracted Victor's attention. He grabbed the flaps of the paper, twisting them under his fingerprints; an inch and an inch more.

Bit by bit, with Victor not even looking at the letter anymore, until that single tear traversed it from side to side. Soon the pieces from two became four and eight and sixteen, smaller and smaller, nails tearing and fingers twisting. 

Victor destroyed every single forgery, reducing them to shreds so that no words would be recognizable anymore. Soon he was sitting in a flurry of paper snowflakes, some of which had somehow gotten caught up in his hair. When Makkachin thought rolling on the shreds would be a good plan, a nice portion of them transferred onto his fur. In normal circumstances, it would have been a hilarious scene, bringing Victor to laugh clearly and freely, like few people had the opportunity to hear. Today, nothing more than a hollow smile stretched Victor's lips, hollow as the obliterated letters.

He felt empty inside. Tears got trapped in his eyelashes. 

At church that evening, he didn’t hear a single word of the sermon **.**

***

Victor was standing in balance on demi-pointe, left leg bent at the knee, heel brushing against his bottom, right leg outstretched, a few days after having discovered Sergej’s deceit. Yuri, whom Victor still met in the aisles of the Imperial School, had been tense since then, waiting for retaliation yet to come. The day prior he seemed about to tell Victor something, but in the end had just muttered a few unintelligible words under his breath.

Victor spun around and let his weight shift a bit to the side, as he put a knee against the stage floor to give himself momentum to stand up. His whole body was twitching with nervous energy and a still-fresh anger for what had happened. 

The Nutcracker would be staged for the Christmas period, and not having a role wasn't a scenario Victor wanted to envision. Refreshing the Russian variations seemed like a good starting point. Victor jumped again, twisting his hips enough to spin mid-air, controlling the landing. Jump. Spin. Bend a leg, outstretch the other. Land. Repeat.

It was late afternoon, the theatre empty except for him. No sound apart from the creak of the wood and Victor's counting time under his breath. Drops of sweat had gathered on his brow, plastering his silver fringe.

"This is outrage. An outrage."

Victor came to a halt. Madame Baranovskaya's familiar voice was coming from outside, muffled by distance but still recognizable. She sounded livid. Her light steps clicked against the floor, with perfect rhythm and an almost martial pace.

The sound of other steps followed, heavier and slower. Before Victor could wonder what was disturbing Madame Baranovskaya, the room door on the left wall smashed open. A man in a white police uniform, pistol at his side, was now standing in the dimly lit place. Right behind him was Lilia Baranovskaya, tall and straight as only a ballerina can be, lips pursed in anger.

"You have no right to smash in my school, disrupt my lesson, and walk around with those filthy boots," she reprimanded. Her voice was cold, maybe a bit higher than usual, but Victor knew her too well to be fooled. Madame Lilia never shouted, but the anger in her tone was unmistakable.

 

Victor swept his brow, blinking in confusion. A wrinkle appeared in between his eyes, even before receiving any explanation.

"What's that?" he asked, moving graciously to the edge of the stage to better see the policeman. He looked arrogant and rude. Victor didn't like him one bit. The policeman cut to the chase.

"Victor Alekseyevič Nikiforov, you are under arrest."

The policeman continued speaking, but Victor had stopped listening. A mixture of fury and nausea surged from his stomach to settle in his throat.

It took him years of training not to panic. 

Suddenly, all the letters he wrote to Yuuri during the summer, the letters Yuuri never received, flashed behind his eyes with all the sentences, written black on white, where he professed his disappointment toward the government. In hindsight, he should've been more careful. 

If only he had kept his mouth shut and his quill silent. Moreover, he shouldn't have threatened Sergej Anatolič, curse that tongue of his. More bribing was the right answer, not gripping him by the throat.

He had been even stupid enough to believe Sergej's claims the letters were burnt, when in reality he must have hidden them somewhere, waiting for the best occasion.

Victor inhaled through his nose, throwing Madame Baranovskaya an apologetic glance. He looked around at the theatre, not sure when, or if, he would be able to see it again. For a brief moment, he pondered escape, the possibility tempting. He knew he was strong, fast, agile. A glance at the heavy pistol the soldier was carrying, however, was enough to make him set the plan aside. He swallowed fear as he had always done, lifting his chin as if he was about to dive into ballet choreography.

"Fine. Madame Baranovskaya, please warn my family. I don't want to receive this piece of news from a man like this."

***

VITYA ARRESTED STOP

COME BACK AT ONCE STOP 

The telegram reached Aleksey while he was in a town near Cracovia for one of his usual business trips. One moment he was drinking what could have been the third or fourth shots of vodka in the attempt to secure a deal, and the next he was on a carriage for the nearest station, cursing he couldn't stop time. For the entire journey, he tried his best to maintain a façade of calm and not succumb to imagining the worst scenarios, no matter how easy it would have been to do so.

"What happened?" Aleksey asked as soon as he arrived home, rushing into the kitchen.

It didn’t matter the telegram had already provided a clear answer. It wasn't yet enough, not to placate the avalanche of _why_ s, _how_ s and _what_ s which had twirled through his mind over the train’s rattling noise and the eerie silence at every station, the tension growing the closer St. Petersburg approached.

Now it was on the verge of exploding. Alina jumped at the question, already sat on the edge of a chair. A couple of knitting needles clacked against the pavement, the points loosening. Aleksey recognized the automatic pattern of when the housemaid was nervous. The bags under her eyes were of a deep shade of purple, eyelid twitching for a complete, uttermostlack of sleep. 

"Aleksey Andreevič ... I ... It's terrible, terrible," Alina stuttered, words coming out broken in the attempt to form a coherent sentence. If there was a person who loved and cared for Vitya as much as Aleksey, that was Alina.

"Alina, calm down."

Aleksey poured her a glass of water. It took long, excruciating minutes for the woman to recompose enough to pronounce the dreaded sentence: "They arrested Vitya."

"I know. Why?" Aleksey bit back the panic surging in his throat.

"I don't know," she whined. 

“It happened at the theatre, I guess. Madame Baranovskaya came to give the notice herself." Alina broke down again sobbing.

"Where is he now?"

"The," Alina sniffed and the words rolled out wet and interrupted by hiccups, "Petropavlovskaya." [3]

Aleksey's world came crumbling down, falling piece by piece, like it had already done twenty-seven years ago when TBC had killed his beloved Irin’ka.[4] At the time, little Vitya had put the pieces back together; the same son who was now in prison. They had taken his only son, his joy, his Viten'ka, away. 

Curiously, maybe for the strange associations that a brain can produce in times of trouble, Aleksey found himself remembering the day Victor was born. It was December and snow was falling heavy outside the window. It hadn't been an easy delivery.

 _"So, zvezda moya [5], what do you want to call him?"_ Aleksey had asked, balancing his bundled first-born in the cradle of his arms. Oh, he could see the bright future they had ahead, the first step toward a house full of babies.

 _"Victor,"_ Irina had said in a feeble voice.

 _"It's a heavy name,"_ Aleksey countered, looking that baby who still hadn't opened his eyes; but Irina had smiled like when she was absolutely sure of something.

_"He'll live up to it, I'm sure."_

Makkachin started to bark toward the door, pulling Aleksey out of the memory.

"I've heard the news, Lyosha," Mikhail announced when Alina had let him enter. "I thought you needed some support.” 

"Thank you," Aleksey said, and the sentence came out in a broken voice. He buried his face in his hands, growling in frustration because there was nothing he could do. They moved to the salon and soon hot cups of tea filled their hands, the soothing vapour coming up in delicate twirls. 

"What can I do, Misha?" Aleksey lamented. 

"It’s too early to despair," Mikhail said, leaning over to put a hand on Aleksey’s shoulder to underline in gesture the comfort of his words. "I have friends in the administration, and Russian judges are always ready to pay an ear to the sound of jingling coins. Besides, you’re both famous. They’ll go easy on him," Mikhail continued. Aleksey didn’t answer save for soft humming noises to express he was listening. What Misha was saying was true from the first to the last words, and Aleksey wouldn’t think twice before renouncing all his richness, if that meant deleting an incriminating sentence or making the judge turn the other cheek. Yet, there were cases when all the gold in the world hadn’t been enough.

"And Vitya is a raznochintsy," Aleksey reminded Mikhail. “I don’t know if my privileges would apply to him too." "For sure. You’re famous in all St. Petersburg _gubernya_ and the city loves him."

Mikhail’s furrowed brow contrasted with the hope in his words, said with the tone of somebody who’s trying to cheer himself first and foremost. He picked one of the pastila Alina had brought, holding it delicately in between his fingers, but after a long consideration decided he wasn’t hungry. 

"Do you know if any other was involved in this matter?"

Aleksey stood up and started to pace around the room, fingers intertwined behind his back, shoulders tensed. "Yes. Yuri Plisetsky."

"The count Plisetsky?" Mikhail wondered out loud. "It could be useful to talk with him."

"I guess you are right, Misha," Aleksey agreed, not once stopping his back-and-forth before the couch. All he knew about Yuri Plisetsky was he was a student at Mariinsky, belonged to a famous but poor aristocracy family, had knocked at their door months ago with a letter for Vitya, and his name had appeared often in Vitya’s chats. With any luck, that would suffice.

***

 

In the humid, suffocating atmosphere of a cell in the Trubetskoy bastion, Victor stuck a finger in each ear while _Kol slaven nash Gospod v Sionye [6]_ rang in the air with the precision of a Swiss clock. Victor knew and appreciated the piece, or so he used to think, as hearing it twenty-four times a day he was starting to hate it.

He still had to grasp the reality of his new situation. There were times when he had the impression of floating into a bubble, detached from all around him. The isolation of the cell, covered in felt to prevent any communication between prisoners, worsened the problem. The warden, who occasionally passed before the bars, kept ignoring his attempts at conversation, though Victor hadn’t yet understood if it was for fear of being reprimanded by his superiors or an unbending sense of duty. 

A sudden coughing attack shook Victor’s body from head to toe, for the gases from the external stove had filled the cell.

Soon, he found himself covered in sweat, like in a nightmarish banja, without water to cleanse up or people with whom exchange the experience of the day. 

He forced himself to stand up on his feet, rolling out of the bunk by sheer willpower. 

The first days, once the initial shock passed, he had tried to keep up with a parlance of training routine, since the cell was big enough; but the suffocating temperature had drained up his energy and his muscles, plagued by cramps, had protested. Victor had ignored them at first, from what he called habit and ballet master Feltsman would call silly stubbornness. When the forces had abandoned his body at once, like an empty sack, he had given up.

Victor hadn’t repeated the experiment. Outside the cell the holy chanting came to an end, leaving behind an eerie silence. With arms crossed behind his nape, Victor watched the arcuate ceiling above his head.

"It’s a grave," he whispered to himself, not for the first time. "It’s a grave and, my dear Yuuri, I fear I won’t be able to see you for a long time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] A very sweet pastry of Turkish origins  
> [2] Russian porridge  
> [3]Peter and Paul Fortress. The original citadel of St. Petersburg. It was used a burial terrain for the Royal family and as a prison.  
> [4] Diminutive of Irina  
> [5] My star  
> [6]If Our Lord is glorious in Sion
> 
> Greetings people, I hope you are having a wonderful June. How curious that I’m publishing in the same month/period of the events described in this chapter.  
> So, things are getting heavy, aren’t they? But the road to end is still long and who knows what may happen.
> 
> You may have noticed I began to shift from using “Madame Baranovskaya” to “Lilia” or from “ballet master Feltsman” to “Yakov”, not exactly following any rule. It is a bit to make the text less boring, and a bit to underline how those figures act a bit as additional parental figures for Victor, so the relationship isn’t anymore completely formal.
> 
> For this chapter I pestered poor [ Curlavski](http://curlavski.tumblr.com) and [ Dev_Writes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dev_Writes) for the maximum of accuracy. In the end, however, I guess a bit of suspension of disbelief was left, in the corners and between the lines. I tend to create very complex OCs, with multi-faceted behaviour.
> 
>  
> 
> Can I say I love Lilia in mama bear mode? And, although it’s not very explored in fics, I like when I focus on Victor and Mila’s friendship.
> 
> A bit shout out also to [ rogovich](https://rogovich.tumblr.com), who provided precious information and insights when dealing with Russian prisons and judicial system in those years. 
> 
> As always my ask box, mail, DM, whatever is always open. Come to say hello at [ gwen-chan](http://gwen-chan.tumblr.com)  
> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * Constructive criticism
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> The author replies to comments
> 
> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I’m reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example), feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!“


	9. Variation à l'anglaise

**Variation à l’anglaise**

The eating place where Phichit Chulanont had lead Yuuri was dirty. Spots of grease stained the tables, sticky against fingertips, and a layer of dust covered the floor. A heavy smoke stood low on everybody’s heads, its acrid smell mixing with roasted beef and boiled cabbage. Above all, the lingering smell of ale and the tingling sound of mugs being smashed together or put down on wood grated against Yuuri's senses. 

Notwithstanding the venue conditions, however, the atmosphere turned out to be surprisingly welcoming. 

"Phichit, good to see you. The usual?" the host had welcomed Phichit, who nodded and pushed Yuuri forward a little. "Yes, a double portion. I have a hungry friend," he added before guiding Yuuri to a greasy table. Soon two pints of ale were placed under their noses, along with two plates of stew. Yuuri hoped the taste would be better than the looks as he picked a bite of meat and let it plop back down in its sauce. Madame Baranovskaya would've recoiled in horror before the dish; but years in tightening purse strings had taught Yuuri to not be prickly, and nervousness always made him hungry.

The stew turned out to be tastier than expected; a bit on the chewy side, too salty for anyone’s sake, but overall good and edible. Yuuri ate slowly, his mouth still sore from having being hit. In fact, almost every inch of him hurt. His knees were probably scraped, his non-dominant wrist pulsing, and if he looked in a mirror he was sure he was sporting a bruise under his eye. The salt was burning his swollen lip, but the pain did not compare to the sheer humiliation of the situation. Finally having a moment to sit down, every emotion came flooding- fatigue, shame, worry. His head was pulsing and all he wanted was to air his mind a little. Thus, when Phichit led the conversation with his uncanny cheerfulness, Yuuri obliged gladly.

"So," Phichit began, wiping a trace of ale from his upper lip with the back of his hand, "What business bring you to London?"

 

Although not completely unexpected, the question still made a mouthful stick in Yuuri's throat. He coughed and drank a sip of beer, face twisting in a grimace at the taste. It was definitely not his thing.

"Business?" he asked, partly to win time, partly because of his poor grasp on English. "Sorry, my English is not good."

"It's fine. Why are you in London?" Phichit rephrased, speaking slower.

"Life, I guess," Yuuri muttered. The possibility of Phichit Chulanont being affiliated with the Okhrana, or any kind of Russian police, was probably equal to zero, but given the circumstances, Yuuri didn't yet feel safe.

"I heard London has a nice Japanese community. Things are bad since the war," Yuuri began, keeping an eye on Phichit to see his reaction. Just a few hours prior the plan would've been totally different, even without considering getting lost and being robbed.

"I thought you were one of those rich Japanese students coming all the way to learn the Western way, judging from your clothes," Phichit exclaimed. Yuuri took a moment to tie each word together and make make sense of the sentence.

"Oh, no," he denied, shaking his head and finding the implication almost funny. "But people judge you less when..." Yuuri started to explain, stopping mid-sentence when he found himself at loss for words.

"You are well-dressed," Phichit supplied. Yuuri nodded with vigour, taking a mental note to buy a dictionary as soon as possible. "I was a danseur."

"A dancer?"

"A ballet dancer," Yuuri elaborated.

In learning the piece of information, Phichit clapped his hands, while a giant grin spread across his face as if he had just heard the best news of the day. "Another artist. I know some dance myself, mostly traditional Thai dance. Now I mostly act. Our company is small, we always need new members. The director is so nice. If you need a job I can help you. I'm sure Mr Celestino won't mind."

A whole new rush of half-intelligible words swamped Yuuri, who had the strange, albeit not negative impression Phichit Chulanont had just adopted him in the peculiar way friends can adopt one another. Phichit put his chin on a closed fist, shifting on the seat as if to find a more comfortable position while getting ready to listen to a good story.

“Ballet, eh?"

That last syllable contained a whole word’s worth of questions, though Yuuri didn't perceive any malice or threat coming from Phichit; on the contrary, he felt only a strong, somehow invasive, but overall innocent curiosity. Thinking that if he had wanted to harm him, Phichit Chulanont could have ended the work started by those robbers, Yuuri decided to open up a bit more. The picture of Michele Crispino, whom he never fully trusted, covering him when nothing good could come from the gesture, was still vivid in Yuuri's mind. 

"I still am," he pointed out, making a face, "I’m just having a rough period."

Yuuri shrugged as if to say, "Here I am." In a London pub, without a penny, eating a stew whose origins were better not investigated, yet he had eaten it to last bite. The low, yellowish smoke made his eyes and throat burn, while the chatting in the background in an almost completely alien language made him feel more lost than ever before. At least when he had come to St. Petersburg, Oleg Vladimirovič had prepared him a little on uses and traditions, and in Paris Victor's stories had sufficed. Now, if it hadn't been for Phichit, Yuuri supposed he would still be wandering the London streets, slowly subsiding to panic and desperation.

"Before I go, give me your address, please," he broke the silence. "To repay you when I have the money."

Phichit looked at him with the expression of someone who had just heard the most ridiculous story. "Nonsense," he declared. "What kind of friend would I be if I leave you to your fate? You’re coming home with me." 

 

"But," Yuuri attempted a protest, promptly metaphorically killed by Phichit’s indisputable objection. "Do you have a place to stay?" 

"Not exactly."

"Money to pay an hotel room?"

"No."

"Then, it's decided. It'll be great, I was starting to feel lonely. It's been already three weeks since my roommate left. He was afraid of my hamsters, can you imagine? They are angels, they would never hurt a fly. And tomorrow I'll introduce you to Ciao Ciao."

 

Phichit continued to talk even after Yuuri had weakly nodded his acceptance for his hospitality; he talked while paying the cheque and walking up to his two-room apartment. The ratty interior reminded Yuuri of his own flat in Russia, except equipped with a bigger, four-fires stove. In the half-light, a noise of tiny nails clicking against the wooden floor attracted Yuuri's attention. He turned toward Phichit with a wondering expression. 

"My little friends," Phichit explained, crouching down and placing his cupped hands at terrain level. Moments later he was scooping up two furballs, whose brisk little eyes were shooting around. 

"Som Tam and Yom," he introduced them, ensuring they were at Yuuri's eye level. "Now, where is ..."

The answer to the question arrived soon, expressed by Yuuri in a series of giggling protests because of four minuscule paws clawing their way up his right leg and torso. 

"He likes you," Phichit declared with a giant grin of satisfaction when the third hamster had set on Yuuri's shoulder. The hamster’s rogue tongue against his neck was ticklish. Phichit beamed with enthusiasm.

"If Chiang likes you, it's perfect. He's very selective, you know." 

So selective Phichit trusted him more than anyone when it came to understand a person’s intentions, he told Yuuri while setting the kettle for a calming brew for the night. "He had bitten my former flatmate now that I think about it," Phichit reflected out loud, retrieving a pair of pyjamas from the drawer. "I'm glad he left. He always smelled of alcohol."

 

The herbal brew he had prepared was delicious and it warmed Yuuri's stomach, down to his bones in the September night of a day that could've been better but also way worse. "Tomorrow, can you help me to find the Japanese embassy?" he asked, already under the covers. The mattress creaked. The hour wasn't that late, the clock signing only ten p.m., but the recent events - from the journey on steamship to being robbed to meeting Phichit - had drained Yuuri's energy, already hit hard by his hasty escape from Paris. Consequently,, tiredness fell on him sooner than expected, like a thick, welcoming duvet. He gingerly placed the now-empty mug on the bedside table. The last thing he heard before subsiding to sleep was Phichit agreeing to accompany him.

For the first time since he left home more than ten years ago, Yuuri didn't sleep alone.

 

Yuuri woke up early as usual, almost before sunrise; months of getting up at five to start the usual tour of milk deliveries had strengthened a habit already embedded in his biological clock. The unfamiliar room disoriented Yuuri at first, as if a portion of a dream was still lingering in the back of his mind. 

It took Yuuri a moment before the events of the day before came back to his memory, jigsaw pieces being put together in the whole picture; his arrival in London, the robbery, his meeting with Phichit Chulanont. His host was still sleeping, snoring lightly. Yuuri groaned, rolled in bed and jolted up, rubbing the grogginess from his eyes. He swept back fringe tufts and put on his glasses. Cracked as they were, it wasn’t long before they caused him a headache; unfortunately, without them he was as good as blind. 

 

It was a strange, unpleasant feeling, to be guest in a stranger's home while being awake before his host. It made Yuuri feel as if he was sticking his nose where he shouldn't be. A strong voice inside his head was urging him to gather his things, leave a note of thanks, and pull up the staked to not be more of a burden than necessary. At the same time, however, Phichit's reasoning was still solid; Yuuri had no place to go nor money to pay for an accommodation, and the moment he walked out of the door, he would find himself on the road.

The sudden grumble of his stomach brought his attention to more immediate and venial needs. The dinner from the night before had been abundant, but the overthinking problems never failed to make him hungry. Phichit probably wouldn't mind if Yuuri prepared some tea, and finding the breakfast ready would be a nice surprise.

 

There wasn't much in the kitchenette pantry; a couple eggs, some old bread, a stick of condensed milk, and half jar of jam. Yuuri opened another cabinet to find what he was searching for - a can of tea. As soon as Yuuri lifted the lid, an intense and unfamiliar smell hit his nostrils; the black, crumbly powder looked like a variety he wasn’t used to, but it would do as well. The kettle was already on the stove. Yuuri cut himself a slice of bread but touched neither the jam nor the milk.

Had he been still in Paris, he would be already running out of the door and starting to deliver milk. Michele Crispino would've given him a crêpe for breakfast, and at nine, Madame Beauchamp would've welcomed him at the hat shop. Three people had offered him a hand, and Yuuri had disappeared from their life without even a goodbye. By now they should have understood he had left for good, as suddenly as he had arrived. 

They must be disappointed, perhaps a mixture of worried and angry. There was no doubt Yuuri's absence had undermined their routines. He thought back to the half-done delivery, the broken bottles on the ground, the pouch of beads he would've sewed on a new hat had it been a normal day. For the second time after St. Petersburg, Yuuri had the impression of being a silhouette suddenly cut out of existence.

A sudden whistle sent him jumping on the chair. Yuuri looked around in haste, searching for the origin of the sound to put a stop to it. On the stove, the kettle fumed, mumbled, and above all, to Yuuri's surprise, whistled. He ran to turn off the gas, marvelling at the same time for the existence of whistling tea-kettle.

"It's only six."

Yuuri almost dropped the tin of tea on the floor. A very groggy, half-asleep Phichit Chulanont was standing next to the table, sporting the messiest of bedheads.

"Oh, you're making tea? Great," he added, plopping down at the table. Yuuri searched for a sign of anger for having been woken up at dawn by a stranger - and to find such stranger preparing tea in his kitchen - but couldn't find any. On the contrary, if it hadn't been impossible, Yuuri would swear to have been Phichit's flatmate since forever. As further proof of this belief, Phichit threw a glance at the slice of bread Yuuri was still munching on, retrieved the jam jar, and pushed it toward Yuuri with a welcoming expression, more meaningful than a thousand words. 

Up to then, only one other person had treated him with kindness before even knowing him: Victor. Yuuri's memories brought him back to a day in March, the year before. Victor had sat down with him, a stranger, a trespasser, a man good only to crash into people; Victor had talked with him without traces of snobbery or arrogance. They had already danced together at the homecoming masquerade, and Victor had developed an interest for him ever since; but it didn't change the fact that, at the time, Yuuri had been nothing more than an acquaintance. Yet, Victor had lavished him with affection and compliments. Victor who was handsome, talented, cherished, rich and could have had the whole town at his feet. Instead, Victor had chosen him, had fallen for him, fallen in love; his feelings, in retrospect, ever so clear even in the very first letters. Yuuri was a stranger, a nothing, and Victor had praised everything about him.

It had been alluring, warm, and clear. Looking back, Yuuri wondered how on Earth he could have had doubts about Victor's intentions. Probably because it was Victor of all people, and there was no way Victor could be interested in him.

Yuuri swallowed the lump in his throat, repeating three words in the back of his mind, slowly, as savouring every letter; for maybe the message would finally be impressed in his brain. Victor loved him, but now Victor was silent and it hurt.

 

"Something wrong?" 

Yuuri jerked back to the present. He felt tiny tears lingering at the corner of his eyes.

“A bit of nostalgia,” he assured, drying his eyes with the sleeve of the spare pyjamas Phichit let him borrow **.**

“That’s always hard,” Phichit commented with a sympathetic tone, proceeding then in asking Yuuri for how long he had been away from home. Yuuri lifted seven fingers, miming the gesture to indicate approximation.

“That’s for Europe. I had already left my hometown.”

Phichit made a marvelling sound, eyes widening in both disbelief and admiration. He told Yuuri that he’d come to London three years before to study. He had been so fascinated by the city he had decided to stay a little longer.

"And your family?" Yuuri asked. Phichit's own personal story reminded him of his own, both from Eastern Asian countries coming to Europe, albeit for different reasons. For him the decision to leave Japan, motivated by a sharp clear intent, had been accompanied by the awareness his staying would last for years. For Phichit, on the contrary, it seemed like a change of plan had occurred at a certain point. Not that Yuuri was anyone to judge.

"They miss me," Phichit answered with simplicity. "But they are happy and support me, " he anticipated Yuuri's next question. "Mom is an actress herself. Oh! I think the tea is ready."

The tea was rich in taste. It gave Yuuri the impression of having messed up with the brewing time. He glanced up at Phichit, whose face wasan open book.

"So bitter," Phichit lamented, grabbing the condensed milk and pouring half in the tea. He blew on it and took a new, tentative sip, features softening. "That's better. You want some?" He gestured toward the milk. Yuuri refuted. He didn't want to be more of a burden than he already was. Consequently, he waited for Phichit to put his cup back down before bringing up again his necessity to visit the embassy. 

"Of course, I don't remember exactly where it is, but I can ask a bit around. Don't worry." 

Yuuri smiled feebly at Phichit’s positive attitude, which he had to admit was contagious. Just like it happened when approaching a complex choreography, it was better to start a step at a time. It was still early morning, and the embassy probably wouldn't open for a few other hours. After a long time, Yuuri had no need to run somewhere. He unscrewed the lid of the jam jar and took a spoonful. 

***

 

The receiving at the embassy was harsher than Yuuri expected.

"His Excellency the Ambassador is very busy at the moment," the secretary at the Embassy reception told Yuuri in a polite, albeit annoyed, voice. Yuuri thanked him and bowed in acknowledgement. Despite everything, after six long years, speaking Japanese again was a relief, like coming home from an apparently never-ending journey. "I understand, but it is important," Yuuri replied, placing the hands on the desk edges. He ret

racted them after a glare from the receptionist, but living in Russia had taught him more things than ballet. Standing his ground was one of them.

"If you would be so kind as to call someone. A few minutes would be enough. I can wait."

"I will see what I can do," the receptionist eventually said in a cold but overall polite voice. He gestured for Yuuri to sit down, picking up the phone receiver.

"Your name?"

"Katsuki Yuuri."

The clock on the wall tickled in the background. The more Yuuri looked at it, the more it seemed the hands had decided to slow down on purpose. It reminded him of those gloomy days when no step in the ballet room seemed right, a whole new level of Hell. Yuuri brushed his hands against the expensive cloth of his new trousers, trying to smooth a wrinkle. Phichit had assured him he knew a couple places that would be more than willing to rebuy them for a not insufficient sum of money. The bruise under Yuuri's eye still hurt when touched, slowly turning to a vague shade of blue. Above all, seeing through broken glasses lenses drilling into his skull, just above his nose. In short, despite being nicely dressed, Yuuri felt like a wreck.

"Mr Katsuki?" a new voice called Yuuri's attention. He would swear the stranger had a strong accent from Osaka.

"I'm the Ambassador's secretary. Come."

The Ambassador's secretary proved to be very inclined in listening. Yuuri curled his hands around a steamy cup of traditional Japanese tea, thumbs brushing on the ceramic’s undulated knurling. The brew tasted wonderful, bringing him memories of home; it had a delicacy Russian teas didn't share. 

“That's unfortunate," the man commented when Yuuri finished explaining, telling the whole truth for the first time since he left St. Petersburg on that March night, ages ago.

“But I'm afraid we cannot help you."

More pressing business required their attention, the fragile construction and maintenance of the network of international alliances. Moreover, all diplomatic relations with Russia had ceased; when they ever opened again, other, more urgent matters would be on the table.

“A ship bound to Tokyo will leave in two days from Liverpool," the secretary reprised, sounding almost sorry for not being able to do more. "I suggest you should take it. Once home, you'll be safe."

The subtle way he pronounced the last word made Yuuri understand the time he had been granted had just ended. He stood up, said thank-you once more for the man’s time, help, and tea while bowing deeply, and took his leave. 

 

Returning home was a tempting prospect, Yuuri had to admit. It wasn't even the first time the idea flashed through his mind, popping out here and there after a particularly hard day. His family would welcome him with open arms and in Hasetsu, the Okhrana would become nothing but a distant problem, like a fading bad dream. Each time up to now, Yuuri had pushed the plan to the back of his mind, shaking his head to get rid of the latest remnants. The time to return home hadn't come yet, not when a letter from Victor could arrive any moment now.

Yuuri dug nails into his palms to silence the cruel voice inside his brain reminding him Victor hadn't written to him in months, the whole summer immersed in a silence on his part so strong, a dreadful sense of tragedy wrapped around Yuuri if he thought excessively on the subject. His fingers ran to hold onto the egg pendant, only to close on thin air. A desolate smile broke across Yuuri's lips, remembering how he had sold the jewel to ensure a safe escape. Then, robbers had stolen his jacket and with it, Victor's sweet note of love Yuuri had decided to keep in one of the pockets. In retrospect, it had been a foolish decision.

"Bad news?" Phichit welcomed him outside the Embassy, smiling as warmly as the sun. He could rival with Victor for enthusiasm.

"They can't do much," Yuuri shrugged. "It could be badder," he added.

"Good speaking. Next step?"

"Uhm," Yuuri muttered, silently shuffling through the various possibilities. "Selling these," he gestured toward his clothes. And then I have to-" he stopped, looking for the right word. He mimed the gesture of writing a letter.

"Writing a letter?" Phichit supplied.

"Yes," Yuuri confirmed.

If not to Victor, he could at least inform Chris of his change of environs, if ever Victor broke his mysterious silence. There were also his family to warn, his sister Mari all the way back in Japan, in his little hometown he missed everyday. Yet, the nostalgia he felt for Hasetsu was increasingly being replaced by a new one, for St. Petersburg. As if, without Yuuri even noticing it, the city had become a home. _Or a person had_ , Yuuri's inner voice whispered softly. Missing Victor made him miss St. Petersburg and vice-versa, in a never-ending cycle. 

Now, hopefully away from the Okhrana's jaws, a letter to Mariinsky was due. The sense of guilt for having left without a warning, despite circumstances outside of his control, hadn't left Yuuri yet; but he trusted that Madame Baranovskaya, who was so strict yet so protective with her students, would understand. 

 

Of the three letters Yuuri sent in the following days, repeating to himself in London he would be safe, only one spotted a clear address.

_Dear sister,_

_I apologise for the long silence, but it was obliged by the circumstances. I hope this letter will find you in good health. How are our parents? I trust Hasetsu has not be touched excessively by the war, but sometimes I cannot help but worry. Is young Minami still sticking with the idea of becoming an actor? I hope he has not changed his mind to enter the Army. In all honesty, it would only damage him._

_Due to external circumstances, I’m not in France anymore. I trust I will be safer in London._

_After all, Japan and England have been allied for years now; despite having been here only for a few days, I can already perceive how there is something similar between Japanese and British cultures and attitudes. Nevertheless, I find myself missing the Russian ways of St. Petersburg. Just the other day at the Japanese embassy, I used directness I wouldn’t have thought possible a few years ago. I suppose being away from home, in an not always friendly environment, will eventually toughen a person._

_These last months have not been the brightest, I admit, but I trust things will improve from now on. If only I had news from St. Petersburg, whose absence can only nourish the darkest scenarios. In July I had the chance to meet a friend of Mila Babicheva and to be adjourned on some of the latest news, yet the situation has not developed._

_I am afraid you have to tell mom the preparations for the wedding will have to wait. I will not hide that there are moments I doubt what I had with Vitya had ever been real, that I had gotten too ahead of myself and now I am paying the consequences. Deep down I know these thoughts are not true, but there are moments when I fear I misinterpreted things; then I stop and force myself to remember if not the words, at least the gestures, which had a tenderness I believe cannot be faked._

_In any case, I am still getting adjusted to London, as my arrival here was rougher than expected. Nonetheless, I had the luck of finding an unexpected and precious help. Hopefully, in a short span, I should have a roof over my head and a job._

_I will eagerly await for news from home. I miss and hug you all._

_Your Brother_

 

The second letter was meant for Chris. Yuuri hadn't written to him since the previous July for fear of being excessively bothersome. Chris was Victor's best friend, not his, after all. At the same time, if there was a person who Yuuri believed could get back in touch with Victor, it was Christophe Giacometti.

 

_Dear Chris,_

_Forgive my insistence, but Vitya is your best friend and in name of our mutual friendship and the help you already provided, I pray you to not keep secret any piece of news that may come from St. Petersburg._

_If Vitya has decided he prefers to put an end to our relationship, I’d like to tell him I understand but to stop hiding behind this silence._

_If, on the contrary, he is still the Vitya I love and remember, please bring him the news I still love him and I'm looking forward the day I can meet him again. But I'm beating around the bush. The real reason why I'm writing this letter is to communicate I'm not in France anymore, in case some messages from has Russia arrived. I moved to safer lands, instead._

_I don't feel comfortable enough to share my current address yet - I have barely had time to settle down - but if no threat comes in the following weeks, I will add this piece of information in my next message. I wish you the best of luck for the new ballet season._

_Sincerely,_

_Yuuri_

 

The third letter was for Madame Baranovskaya.

_Madame,_

_I still had not the opportunity to apologise for my sudden and unadvertised departure. Though I do not believe it caused problems to the theatre, I feel my behaviour was disrespectful in regards to your person and the whole ballet company._

_I am thus writing this letter to inform you dancing for Mariinsky had been an honour and an extraordinary opportunity. I hope you will be so glad to welcome me again once the war had ended._

_Please accept my deepest and most sincere regards._

_Yuuri Katsuki_

 

***

Some days after Yuuri's arrival in London, Phichit brought him to meet his colleagues. Yuuri had yet to buy a dictionary, and sometimes all he could do was either smile or make a face, depending on the feeling; but Phichit had made it clear there was no reason to worry. "Seung-Gil still doesn't speak a word of English and we all love him," he exclaimed before opening the back door of a theatre and gesturing to Yuuri to precede him. Phichit guided Yuuri through a corridor leading to a dressing room and finally into the wings. On stage, a petite Chinese boy was walking on his hands, while an older man, sat in the audience and sporting a long ponytail, scribbled something on paper.

"Celestino, great news," Phichit announced his and Yuuri's presence, stepping on stage. The boy fumbled for the surprise, managing to transform his fall into a graceful flip. The man named Celestino stopped writing, raised up and moved nearer the stage.

"What news?"

"This is Yuuri." Phichit pushed Yuuri forward, grinning with wide enthusiasm. "He's just arrived in London and needs a job."

There was something in Celestino's features and behaviour that reminded Yuuri of the Crispinos. He clasped his hands at chest level.

"Can you act, Yuuri?" Celestino asked, flopping down on one of the front seats. "What can you do?" 

It took a moment for Yuuri to process the question and come up with an answer. Knowing the language in a so poor way was frustrating. "Ballet, sir. I can dance."

Mr Cialdini must have noticed, as the next question he posed regarded Yuuri's knowledge of other languages rather than English.

"Je parle un petit peu de français,[1]" Yuuri promptly replied. He doubted his knowledge of Russian or Japanese could be of any help. If a year before his French was still terribly rusty, the months spent in Paris had forced Yuuri to quickly improve. For his luck, Celestino knew the language and the rest of conversation was done in French. 

 

"Well, let's see what you can do." Celestino gestured toward the centre of the stage.

"Ah, right."

Had he had known he would've been asked to dance here and now, Yuuri would have prepared previously, stretching and warming his muscles thoroughly. He should have expected it, so he didn't complain. At the same time, in no universe would Yuuri have done a single step without a proper warming beforehand. Nothing was worth the risk.

Luckily for him, Mr Cialdini didn't seem to be bothered and, if his features betrayed a certain disappointment, Yuuri was too focused on unknotting his muscles to notice. He had had the vague idea of reprising his solo from S _oblazneniye printsa_ , which was still vivid in his mind and muscle-memory notwithstanding all the months passed. 

Only a few steps into the choreography, however, his feet decided to turn into a different direction, as possessing a life on their own. Yuuri let the rest of his body follow them, for dancing was the moment he could express himself at his core, and his troubled mind could leave space for instinct. Yet, he never would have thought to dance the solo he was preparing to show Victor all the way back in February **,** before a false accusation set everything into motion. Nor was in the plans to remain emotionally drained from an otherwise short and simple ballet. Things should've gone oh so differently, the little dance meant as a surprise, a gift for Victor; a simple sign of Yuuri's feeling, of his love. Now there were times, so increasingly frequent, during which Yuuri even doubted Victor still loved him. 

"Damn, mate, you're good." 

At Yuuri's right came the sound of Phichit's enthusiastic clapping. Celestino too looked impressed, if Yuuri dared to get ahead of himself.

 

"You're good, needless to say. Unfortunately, our company focuses more on making people laugh. I doubt our public could appreciate this," he commenced tapping his chin with the style cap. "Is it all you can do?"

"I can do some pantomime and I guess some acting," Yuuri replied, grabbing the hem of his shirt and twisting it in his sweaty hands. "I could help with the costumes," he added in a rush.

Celestino suppressed a throaty laugh. "No need. Who knows, a new face could be appreciated."

He turned toward Phichit, shifting to English. Phichit's face first frowned in concentration, as if trying to remember something, then it lit up with the rhythm of an energetic nodding. 

"Yes, absolutely," he assured. Soon after his arm was around Yuuri's shoulder, who hadn't yet grasped the latest development but could affirm with certainty to have just found a job. He clasped his hands together and bowed a little.

"Thank you, sir."

"You're welcome. Phichit will teach you a dancing number. Learn it in four days and you'll perform with us this Saturday."

On their way toward the exit, Phichit exchanged a few words with the boy Yuuri had previously seen doing acrobatic tricks on stage and made the proper introductions.

"Nice to meet you," Guang Hong greeted Yuuri, nipping in the bud all Yuuri's worries of animosity on Guang Hong's part for the turbulent records between Japan and China. Apparently, they knew better than to let quarrels between countries hinder a potential friendship. 

 

Celestino's company of artists did shows every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday evening; every two weeks they performed late night at the Adelphi theatre, when the low-end public could afford the tickets at a half-price. Music halls, however, were the preferred venue for the majority of the shows.

"Music halls?" Yuuri asked Phichit for clarification, the name completely new, in a mixture of broken English and gestures. It would be their only way of communication for the days to come.

"Yes, don't you know them?" Phichit wondered out loud, sounding surprised. 

Yuuri shook his head. When Phichit explained it with the usual enthusiasm, Yuuri found himself to be both confused and intrigued by the idea of a place where people attended performances while eating and drinking. He doubted the idea would be accepted in Russia. The wonders of music halls weren't the only thing Phichit talked about. He told about the origins of the company, how Celestino Cialdini, a former actor from America, had funded it a few years before. It was a small company, just four people including Celestino, all immigrants and very close.

 

Phichit showed Yuuri his number as soon as they arrived home. It included a mixture of pantomime, embedding dance steps from Thai tradition, and juggling with a rotating baton he manoeuvred with uttermost ease, throwing it in the air and catching it back behind his back. The space in the apartment he was so generously sharing with Yuuri was little, but Phichit moved and danced in it as if he had a whole stage at his disposal. 

It was different from the dance Yuuri was used to. With the exception of the occasional waltz and episodic folklore dancing, for years he lived and breathed ballet, his passion and soul.

Phichit's acrobatics and tricks reminded him of a travelling company of jugglers who came to Hasetsu every few years to the delight of the young children, though the adults too ended up leaving their work to enjoy the show. Often Yuuri's family’s hot spring complex hosted the acrobats, and those were good days for the business. Even now, in her letters, Mari never forgot to mention when the caravan passed by their town.

With a jumped spin Phichit grabbed the baton one last time, made it do a final rotation, and stopped. He looked as fresh as he had just begun.

"So?"

Yuuri made a dubious face, tilting his head to the side. He wondered how on Earth he would learn the number in four days. Being called to substitute someone last-minute and having to learn a choreography in a short span of time wasn't a complete novelty in truth, though more a single case in a million than a normal occurrence. But it had always been a matter of short performances in the background and simple steps Yuuri already knew, since the theatre would've never let the principal, front solos be performed by an unprepared substitute. Yuuri rubbed his eyes in discomfort.

The pantomime he could manage, but the juggling seemed far too difficult. If his feet were strong, trained, and steady, the same couldn’t be said for his hands. It would be a mistake, however, to consider them less important than any other body part, when dance required the harmony of the whole. When in ballet everything had its precise role and meaning, hands were a decoration, the additional embroidery on a piece of fabric; apparently useless, but drawing the line between mediocrity and excellence. Yuuri recalled all too well the hours spent in repeating an exercise because a hand wasn't positioned at the perfect angle, turned just slightly. 

"It's good," Yuuri finally answered Phichit's inquiry. "And difficult."

It was strange how, after not even a week in London, he already had a job and a show number to prepare. Yuuri flopped back on the bed with a groan. Had he not been robbed, things would've evolved differently; yet in his misfortune, it could've been worse. 

He resolved to stand up, brushing his hands against his pants. Given the little time, every second was precious. 

"Can you show it me again?" he invited. Phichit grinned and returned to his starting position. Yuuri vowed to not lose a single movement. 

*** 

"It bothers you?" Yuuri asked the next Friday, tracing each word on the French-English dictionary Mr Cialdini had given him.

"What? Phichit replied, stretched on the bed with Chiang on his chest. Yom and Som Tam were sleeping, curling on the pillow.

"That I make your number."

In the precedent days, Phichit Chulanont had taught him every step and move with passion, the smile never faltering from his face despite the concentration clear in the most difficult moves. When rehearsing at the Adelphi, whose stage was free at early morning, introduced Yuuri to the other members of the company: Guang Hong, the Chinese boy from Limehouse; Leo da La Iglesia, who worked in a cotton mill and played the guitar at the Saturday night show. Leo de la Iglesia had a deep passion for music. Had it been up to him, he would spend his whole day playing his guitar instead of moving cotton balls at the mill.

Finally, there was Seung-Gil, the serious Korean who threw knives with crazy precision.

"I'm new and I do not want to -" Yuuri flipped through the dictionary pages to find the right words. 

"Pass ahead of the others," Phichit concluded for him. Even without the whole sentence, the sense was clear. Phichit had already done so much for him.

"I'm not good."

Yuuri looked at his hands, covered in blisters, both fresh and popped because he wasn't used to handling a baton, which ended up on the floor way more times it was caught back.

 

Only the day before Yuuri had started to manage the easiest of the moves, learning the right way to flick his thumb to send the baton rotating in the air with the right amount of strength. The pantomime, on the other hand, hadn't been much of a problem. 

"You are doing great, mate," Phichit replied, standing. Far from falling for the sudden movement, Chiang ] ran up to settle on Phichit's shoulder. It made him look almost like a kind of gentle divinity.

"But, why are you teaching me it?"

Phichit scratched his chin. "It was an old number," he started. "Celestino decided to change it months ago, to offer the public variety. But the public loved it and I'm sure it will be happy to see it again. Yuuri gestured to him to repeat, slower if possible. It was strange to stop every other word to search the meaning on the dictionary. As it was with OlegVladimirovič during the first times, when an interpreter was too expensive and Yuuri didn't speak a word of Russian, and Oleg not a word of Japanese. At least now Yuuri had a dictionary.

"And then you'll have a number of your own."

Apparently, Celestino encouraged members in the company to develop their own style. The only problem was ballet wasn't appreciated, apparently.

"Besides, we still have time for some more of this." Phichit bent over to grab the baton , which had rolled under the bed. He threw it to Yuuri. The hamsters ran to hide in a safer place.

***

Saturday evening arrived sooner than expected. Logically, Yuuri knew it was the normal flow of time, but up to the last moment, he had hoped the single afternoon between Friday and Saturday would last an eternity. He brushed his sweaty hand against the cheap satin of the yellow trousers Celestino had given him. The upper part was a tunic, bright red with a floral pattern on the back. Yuuri considered it kitsch, but the ugly costume was the last of his problems.

He shouldn't be so nervous. It was one thing to be worried for a première at Mariinsky, knowing a theatre full of powerful nobles awaited, that the destiny of the theatre weighted on your shoulders; maybe not exactly on his shoulders, but that was the sense.

It was another to perform a night show to distract a public looking for entertainment in between a beer and an appetizer. Still, underestimating a show wasn't a habit of Yuuri’s.

After all, he hadn't performed in months, since his background role in Sleeping Beauty; the last time he was still in St Petersburg. The awareness hit him hard. 

"You alright?" Celestino Cialdini entered Yuuri's field of view.

The thunderous applause and laughter communicated Phichit’s number had met the public favour.

"Are you sure you want me to perform?" Yuuri insisted, lazily rotating the baton. "I'm not good," he reiterated the concept. 

Celestino patted him on the shoulder. "If you make a mistake, pretend it's all part of the show!" 

“Mistakes are not allowed,” Yuuri muttered. In response, Mr Cialdini just gave him what Yuuri assumed must be a reassuring pat on the shoulder before proceeding on stage to announce the next number. Stage fear wasn't an absolute novelty for Yuuri, but in years at Mariinsky it had never been so strong, nourished by the awareness of being in a foreign ambience and absolutely not prepared.

Nausea rushed through him as soon as he stepped on stage, as he was taken back to the first time he had danced at Mariinsky. 

A single chandelier lit up the room from above, the candle’s flames flickering in the air and shining on the cutlery and glasses the waiters continued to refill. Slowly all the heads lifted and turned in his direction, their stares piercing into him. Sweat pooled in the creases of his palms, wetted the baton handle and made it slippery. 

Yuuri froze at the centre of the stage, the baton useless in his hands, the costume hitching against his skin. His mind had gone to a complete land of nothingness, not a step left in his memory and the training too short to have embedded the gestures in his muscles.

There was nothing left to do than to wait for the whistles and tomatoes. Only by a sheer force of will, Yuuri managed to at least to bend his right arm at the elbow, showing the baton to the audience, and to flick the thumb to send it flying up-air. The baton shot up toward the ceiling, drawing a parabola, the trajectory unbalanced. It fell back on the floor, somewhere behind Yuuri, whose empty hand was still stuck out in pathetic wait.

He could do at least the pantomime, but his memory wasn't being more helpful on that part. There was nothing, absolutely nothing.

 

_Dance for me._

 

Yuuri's eyes widened. Victor's soft voice, strong and clear, was now resonating in his ears. Hearing voices couldn't possibly be a good sign for his mental sanity; yet, far from scaring him, it warmed Yuuri's heart. He fluttered his eyes closed to find the picture of Victor smiling at him burnt in his memory, as vivid as if Victor was standing before him at that very moment. 

_Dance for me, dance with me,_ Victor was saying, hand already outstretched in invitation. There had been a day when they had danced to the notes of a traditional Russian folk song, in a warm house, with the silliness of two people in love. It seemed like a whole life had passed.

It was true juggling with a baton wasn't among Yuuri's talents, not a thing he could master in a couple of days; but ballet, dance, was another, completely different matter. Dancing was something Yuuri could do with closed eyes, whether improvising on the whim or letting his body follow the memory embedded in his muscles. Mr Cialdini believed ballet wasn't adept at making people laugh, and Yuuri had to admit mockery scenes didn't often have the limelight in ballet. At the same time, however, sticking to this interpretation would be uttermost superficial.

Around him people were already whistling their disapproval, brawling with both their voices and cutlery, as Yuuri struggled with himself to get up from his own feet. He closed his eyes, to set aside the room, the people, the noise, and Victor's voice was still there, clear and sound. _Dance with me,_ it said. Yuuri inhaled, grasping to that glimmer of hope and love, and so he found it, the right idea, bright as the sun. It clicked into place with the perfect clutch.

Yuuri remembered the Coppelia doll variation[2] well enough to replicate the choreography and draw inspiration from it at the same time.

As if answering a sudden, external command, Yuuri's whole body went stiff, rigid as if made of wood. Without a warning he bent over until he brushed his buckles against the stage floor, arms let dangling lifelessly.

 

Yuuri counted to three and snapped up his right arm, soon to be followed by the left. He raised a leg to start walking, the movement rigid, but instead of actually walking he stood there, with a leg stuck out at ninety degree with his pelvis. He turned toward the audience with a surprised expression on his face and and dropped on the floor, where he sat looking helplessly and without a clue about how to get up. Three times he pretended to do so and three times he fell again, head dangling from side to side. 

The choreography would shine the most when performed by two people, the doll and the puppet master, but Yuuri had enough knowledge and prowess to supply alone, filling the gap with imagination. Soon in a remote part of his brain, he started to hear people chuckling and laughing at the scene of a clumsy puppet doll manoeuvred by an even clumsier puppeteer. 

They were laughing and not at him; or, to be more precise, they were indeed laughing at him, but not for mocking. They laughed because he was making them laugh with his act. Yuuri's eyes, almost by chance, fell on the baton still lying abandoned on the floor. Yuuri turned his back on the audience with an abrupt movement, bending at the waist to retrieve the baton from the floor. The audience laughed harder at Yuuri's bottom wrapped in yellow satin sticking up in the air.

With the baton back in his hand, Yuuri tilted his head to the side and flicked his thumb. The baton shot up and fell on the floor all over again after having almost hit him on the head, which far from ruining the performance, inserted perfectly in the number Yuuri was presenting. This time the ridiculous clumsiness was justified, showing the silliness of a rigid doll, manoeuvred by an inept puppeteer trying to do juggling and failing miserably.

For each feigned failure, the public cheering grew stronger. Their final applause made the cutlery tingle.

 

"What a wonderful improvisation," Celestino's compliment welcomed Yuuri in the wings. A moment after, Phichit crushed him in a hug. He expressed further his excitement by clapping his hands. Yuuri scratched the back of his head in sheepish embarrassment. 

"Sorry for ruining your number," he muttered, handing the stick back to Phichit. 

"What are you talking about? It was great!" Phichit refuted, soon backed-up by Guang-Hong and Leo, while Seung-Lee just huffed in a corner, which apparently was his way to show participation. Besides, Yuuri understood his detachment, when his number, which would concluded the overall show, was imminent. As Celestino went back on stage to do the proper announcement, Yuuri dropped into the first empty chair. Sweat had spotted his new glasses and the costume continued to hitch, but neither one nor the other bothered him. All he could think about was how an absolute disaster had turned into a success, filling him with pride. He wished Victor had been there to see him. He would've laughed with joy. How Yuuri missed that.

He blinked away the tears before they could slide down on his cheeks. It wasn't a day to be sad, but a night for celebrations, albeit just a little, thanks to his presence of mind on stage, Yuuri had just obtained a rightful place in Celestino's theatre company. He had a job, a possible new friend, and a roof on his head. He was ready to start anew. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] I speak a little French  
> [2] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lUDg5fjCJZ0&frags=pl%2Cwn
> 
> I’m back! I’m melting due to the summer heat and chances this may be the last chapter until September because I’m going to spend sometime in my mountain house and I have no connection there. So, even with library WI-FI and Internet at relatives’ houses, I am pretty sure the timing won’t match. 
> 
> You may notice this chapter is a bit shorter than the latest ones. This because I decided to split a very long chapter into two pieces for reason of updating schedule and pacing. You can consider it as a breather episode after the cliffhangers of both the previous two chapters. 
> 
> In this and also the next chapter, I did my best to not fall into writing something stereotypical or offensive. However,I’m not writing a xenophobia-free setting and at the time there was a certain racism against Asian people (the yellow peril). 
> 
> Let it be clear: when and if characters express xenophobic opinions/are in racist situations it’s not my POV at all.
> 
> Every time Yuuri speaks with a bad English, it is something wanted for sake of realism. 
> 
> All the info about London, the early Edwardian era and England in general are courtesy of [nerdqueenblogbitches](https://nerdqueensblogbitches.tumblr.com) and [whileileavetheground](https://whileileavetheground.tumblr.com). They both have been extremely kind, patient and helpful. 
> 
> [ Curlavski](http://curlavski.tumblr.com) and [ Dev_Writes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dev_Writes) are a blessing as always. 
> 
> I created a discord channel for me to chat (and rant) with people ( about writing and art (mostly writing). You can consider it as a big DVD commentary on what I write, the random thoughts during the writing process, the writing advices I consider useful. There are also deleted scenes from CEE and snippets from future chapters and other projects. 
> 
> If you are interested, you can join [here](https://discord.gg/fHzDsFT). I promise I don’t bite
> 
> As always my ask box, mail, DM, whatever is always open. Come to say hello at [ gwen-chan](http://gwen-chan.tumblr.com)  
> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * Constructive criticism
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> The author replies to comments
> 
> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I’m reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example), feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!“


	10. Soubresault

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention of brief drug usage and panic attack

**Soubresault**

"We are out of incense," Phichit announced with a dreary voice. 

Yuuri lifted his eyes from the children’s silly rhymes book he had recently begun to read in an attempt to learn English faster. According to both Phichit and Celestino, he had already made amazing progress in the short span of two weeks. Compared to with the years it took him to go over the elementary level with Russian, it was a satisfying achievement.

Since his debut and official entrance in Celestino's company, Yuuri had reprised his show number another four times, each welcomed with the same cheering as the first one. The company was also refining a show to be performed at the Adelphi theatre the second week of October. For the occasion, Celestino had assigned to both Yuuri and Phichit a pantomime to prepare together, based on misunderstanding between two characters interfering one with the other without ever being face to face.

"Even the last one?" Yuuri asked back.

"Even the last one," Phichit confirmed. It was not a complete surprise, given the profusion of incense used in the apartment, from the stick always burning before the small altar dedicated to Buddha in a corner to the others lit in various places of the house to chase away evil spirits and ghosts. From what Yuuri understood, this habit had been another point of disagreement with Phichit's previous flatmate, who blamed his headaches on the fumes. 

Incense, on the contrary, didn't bother Yuuri at all, for he had long gotten used to it. His mother, back home, always used a stick of incense to perfume the main hall in the Yu-topa; and later, in Russia, an abundance of incense was burnt in church during mass. One eventually would get used to it. Phichit had been delighted in learning this piece of information.

"Better to buy it," Yuuri commented in response.

"I know the perfect shop." Phichit grabbed his raincoat with one hand and retrieved the house keys from their place on the countertop next the stoves. He stopped at the door. 

"Won’t you come?" he asked. Outside the window, a light drizzle was falling from the plumping grey sky, threatening to become a full, heavy rain. In St. Petersburg, the first snow would soon cover the streets. A twinge of nostalgia shot cross Yuuri's chest, a wave about to swallow him. He jolted up before it could happen, forcing the thought aside.

"Sounds like a good idea, " he admitted, already retrieving his shoes. Chiang had fallen asleep in the right one. Yuuri gently picked the hamster out. 

 

The best place in London where to buy quality incense at a good price was, in Phichit's humble opinion, an emporium in Limehouse [1]. Guang-Hong family took care of the business, down on the docks animated by a continuous coming and going of ships and seamen. Among them was Guang-Hong’s father, who spent half a year out at sea on the route to China, while his wife and his mother tended to the shop. 

It was a long, nice walk from their street in Bethnal Green [2], and Yuuri spent it all with an eye on the sky, regretting not having an umbrella. He wrapped the second-hand raincoat tighter around his body; it hadn't taken long for Yuuri to learn how important the piece of clothing was in London’s rainy weather. It had been the most expensive purchase Yuuri had made with the money obtained from selling his tailored pants and suit. From time to time, he glanced around for orientation’s sake.

"You’ll see for yourself when we get there, trust me," Phichit assured for the umpteenth time Yuuri stopped to check the name of a street, blinking behind rain-spotted glasses.

Indeed, at a certain point, the road began to change, announcing the ingress into another world with the first shops spotting banners in Chinese characters. They popped out from both sides of the street, sparse like mushrooms in a forest; with each step, they became more prominent and numerous. Shiny orange paper lanterns swung gently above the doors. Red and golden woods contrasted with the grey of London. From the nearby docks came the vivid stink of fish, coal smoke, and oil. It mixed with the intense smell of fried food and spices.

The painting of a Chinese light vessel on the entrance sign helped in distinguishing Guang Hong’s family’s shop from the others by. Rain must have discoloured the paint, blanching what once were bright greens and blues.

Contrary to what the tiny door suggested, the inside revealed to be bigger than expected. The shop developed in length, going deeper into the backstreet. Tall shelves covered every centimetre of the walls, rising up to the ceiling, stuffed with every kind of product. It went from sugar candies and cough pills to a variety of objects for the house and gardening; from flasks promising the greatest miracles to drugs for all kind of maladies. The majority had Chinese-only labels. Yuuri sniffed due to the dust. There was a sweet, floral smell lingering in the air.

A middle-aged woman was standing behind the counter, busy rearranging a series of jars on a top shelf while balanced precariously on a stool. Phichit cleared his throat.

 

"Phichit. Good to see you," the woman welcomed him, jumping down from the stool with a graceful step. Yuuri supposed she must be Guang-Hong's mother.

"Are you out of incense again?" she asked with a welcoming smile on her face. She was a beautiful woman, Yuuri noticed.

"Unfortunately," Phichit answered. "Do you have that sandalwood flavoured incense I bought two times ago?"

"Just arrived," Mrs. Ji confirmed, already picking a colourful box with the drawing of a flame-throwing dragon on one side. Phichit clapped his had in delight like a child before his favourite sweet.

"Is Guang-Hong home?" Phichit inquired once the box was in his hands.

"He's out doing deliveries but should be back any time now." There was a pause from Mrs. Ji before she added, "But if you want to wait for him, I'd be happy to offer you a cup of tea."

The offer made Yuuri smile feebly, the image of tea being linked with hospitality bringing nostalgic pictures to his memory. Curious how enemy countries could have an equal passion and similar traditions regarding the same beverage.

"And who is your new friend?" Mrs. Ji continued. Yuuri, who had wandered around the shop, throwing only glances to Phichit from time to time, stepped into the light. In that moment the backdoor clanked open, bringing a gust of wind and that same flower smell from before. Yuuri saw Phichit make a face, the grimace of a person refraining from expressing his judgment for something on which he didn't agree.

An old-aged woman appeared from the door, greyish hair held in a low bun and an exasperated expression on her wrinkled face.

"Ning, Mr. Jackson’s vomited again," she informed her daughter-in-law, giving Yuuri the impression this occurrence was not uncommon. Just like Ning Ji had done, she quickly noticed Yuuri. She studied him from head to toe, already thin lips pursing in a grid of small, vertical wrinkles. She was holding a long pipe in one hand.

"You are?" she asked, bringing the pipe to her mouth. She nibbled at it, revealing to still have all her teeth. Yuuri stiffened. Western eyes may not be able to distinguish Asian features, but this was different. Guang-Hong's grandmother for sure had identified his ethnicity the second she laid eyes on him.

"Yuuri. Katsuki Yuuri," Yuuri introduced himself. He kept his back straight and his head high. While it was true he didn't condone all of his country’s actions and felt sad when reading of the casualties from both sides, Yuuri didn't believe he should feel guilty. His family wasn't in the army nor he had any direct connection with anything happening in Manchuria or in Port Arthur bay. He was not to be blamed for his country’s actions.

"And he is your friend?"

The matriarch turned toward Phichit, who in response wrapped an arm around Yuuri's shoulder and said, "Yes," in a firm tone. "I'm afraid I have to decline your offer, Mrs. Ji," Phichit informed Ning Ji. He proceeded to ask the price of the incense.

Yuuri roamed the shop a little further, hands clasped behind his back and the uneasy feeling of being constantly observed by Guang-Hong's grandmother hanging over his head. Curiosity made him crane his neck to peer over the woman's shoulder, but the real question of what was behind the backdoor remained in Yuuri's throat.

 

"You're a curious one," Guang Hong's grandmother commented, inhaling again from her pipe. Her English was perfect, without a trace of accent whatsoever. Yuuri took a step back, hands raised with palms facing forward as if to shield himself.

"No," he muttered. He glanced at Phichit, but he seemed to be deeply immersed in what could be either a negotiation or a normal chat, it was difficult to say.

"It's just business, " the grandmother added, tilting her head to the door, behind which she disappeared a moment later. She emerged again soon after and, without a warning, she proceeded to place something in Yuuri's open palm. It was a small pouch, smelling again with an intense perfume of flowers.

 

"For bad times," the woman explained, as she urged Yuuri to let the pouch slide into one of his pockets. Her half smile made it impossible to understand if she was being helpful or hiding a second, more business-linked purpose.

"Yuuri," Phichit called from the entrance door, his arms full of a box of incense and a new burner. Yuuri turned to the old woman, but she was gone, disappeared once again in the back shop. Something told him she wouldn't emerge for hours. His fingers tightened on the mysterious pouch in his pocket while bidding his farewell to Mrs. Ji. A name slowly formed in Yuuri’s mind as he listened with one ear to Phichit's chatting on the way home: opium.

Several times before the first palaces of Bethnal Green appeared, Yuuri was tempted to throw away the drug, for never would he use it, but he didn't. The pouch ended up hidden somewhere, soon to be quite forgotten, though not completely.

More visits to the Ji's emporium followed, and the second time Guang-Hong was in the shop too, helping his family. They often drank tea together, during which Yuuri discovered Guang-Hong was the son of a seaman, had immigrated to England while still a baby, and his paternal grandmother had elbowed her way in the opium trade. Only now pharmacies sold legally what was once illegally smoked in dark rooms, like the one still surviving behind the emporium, because every source of money in a foreign country counted. 

 

***

 

 

One way Yuuri had found to improve his English was to read newspapers, which also provided helpful in keeping abreast of the situation on the war front. It was mesmerizing how differently news could travel and be presented in a country where censorship wasn't prominent. It looked like the Japanese still had the upper hand, and both the Russian army and fleet couldn't keep up in logistics or equipment. 

It was painful and worrisome to read about the increasing number of casualties on both sides. Skimming through figures, Yuuri prayed no one he knew was among them; not old acquaintances from Hasetsu, or colleagues at Mariinsky. For that, he had taken the habit of lighting a stick of incense every night when he prayed to gods for protection. It happened that sometimes he also directed his prayers to the Buddha statue and even the Christian God, for every bit of help was welcome.

Luckily, Yuuri’s daily routine left him little time to anguish over the war and its effects. Being a professional, he spent a great portion of the day rehearsing and improving his number, refining the details. 

When he wasn't working, Phichit often dragged him in some cheap pub for a good time, trying his best to coax Yuuri into drinking a pint of beer more. Yuuri, however, was adamant. He knew too well what effect alcohol had on him. 

He was seated at the edge of a stage now, his legs dangling idly. Hackney Empire was still empty, being it Friday evening at the hours when people hadn’t yet finished their day; it explained Leo's absence, who was still at the cotton mill. Yuuri and the other members of the company, however, had come earlier to check the stage and set up the scenography. There was something unreal about seeing a place empty after knowing how different it was when full.

That night he would dance again his silly number inspired by Coppelia, dressed like a doll with a frilly tutu and make-up on his face. Apparently, the British public had a passion for actors cross-dressing, taking amusement from women in men’s clothing and men in drag, and given the nature of Yuuri's part in the show, it had been almost a natural development. The fact didn't bother Yuuri, as wearing make-up was a common occurrence in ballet, and his last important stage role had required him to embrace both his masculine and feminine sides in harmony.

It would soon be the anniversary of S _oblazneniye printsa_ première. Yuuri turned his gaze to the stage, which was tempting in its emptiness, the perfect space to dance. Celestino and Phichit were backstage, discussing the latest details with the property owner. 

Yuuri surged to his feet with a fluid movement, arms lifted in the hint of an improvised port de bras, moving slowly to not stress his body, which was still not warmed up.

 

Indeed, he deemed it better to avoid the most complex steps, as an injury was the last thing he needed. Despite all the passing months, slipping back in the Seducer role was as easy as wearing a pair of old, worn-out ballet shoes. To think a year before he was struggling to accept he could have an alluring side, all while coming to terms with Victor's courting.

All of Yuuri's choreography from S _oblazneniye printsa_ was rooted deep in his bones, and he loved it with his very soul. Since dancing a pas de Deux by himself was too sad, Yuuri ended up re-creating an easier version of the Seducer solo. The absence of the music wasn't an obstacle, for he heard the notes inside his mind, and soon he wasn't in Hackney anymore, but in an imaginary land of fantasy and magic.

Until someone called Yuuri back to reality.

 

"Yuuri, Celestino says we have still a couple hours before the beginning of the show. How about we go and grab a bite?" Phichit's cheerful voice shattered the illusion of music. Phichit must have been aware of that too, judging from the abrupt silence following his proposal. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

Yuuri eased himself out of the precarious pas in which Phichit's interruption had stuck him, slowly lowering his right leg back onto the ground and rolling his shoulders. "It's fine, I’m not very hungry," he insisted. His stomach grumbled in protest. All of sudden eating something sounded like a much more appealing idea, though his meal choices were few. When struggling with a diet, British cuisine didn't offer many alternatives. Yuuri hoped the eating place Phichit had in mind served soups - maybe the onion soup he had discovered to like.

"You were damn good," Phichit reprised his compliments on the way to the pub, zigzagging to avoid the dirty puddles of rain on the pavement. It had rained intermittently all day.

"I'm..." Yuuri began to shy from the compliment, but the negation got stuck in his throat. Deep down he knew himself to be a good dancer, and arguing the contrary was only a waste of energy. Far from being a delusion, it was a sheer reality. He would've never gotten Victor's attention with a mediocre dance. Victor was caring and loving in his everyday affection, but that didn't make him any less ruthless when it came to ballet criticism. Even then, if Victor was biased in his judgement of Yuuri's dancing, a Ballet Mistress like Madame Baranovskaya wasn't.

 

"Thanks," Yuuri said in the end. "Though I still had a long way to go," he added. There was a difference between self-confidence and arrogance; yet Yuuri knew, had he been Russian, he would've already been promoted to coryphé or even soloist. Prowess could do little where xenophobia had already made its damages. Luckily, London had proved to be a more welcoming city toward diversities, at least by comparison.

 

Yuuri was still reflecting on these matters an hour later while applying cherry red lipstick with measured gestures. The taste of onion and light beer still lingered in the back of his mouth. He stretched his lips, twisting his head to the left to check for missing spots. Applying eyeshadow and mascara was easier. 

Yuuri's number wouldn't be until mid-show, which gave him a nice amount of time to prepare. On a fake head posed before the toiletry table mirror, an old wig, styled in an updo, was waiting. When Yuuri had tentatively touched it, a cloud of dust had diffused all around. He looked back in the mirror. With a net to keep his hair flat against the skull, his face looked almost alien, both lips and eyebrows designed to give the illusion of a painted doll face. Yuuri gingerly lifted the wig and eased it on his head, puffing compact powder to blend the wig’s seam with the rest of skin. From the right distance, he could leave the audience wondering if he was male, female, or something in between. For the last touch, he used the lipstick to draw two circles, one for each cheek.

Yuuri smacked his lips with an approving sound. It had taken him a while to get used to a whole new style of shows, but now he had to admit to like them, if the thrill in his veins was anything to go by. It would be fun.

 

Hackney Empire [3]’s audience loved Yuuri's number. At first, they had been surprised by the novelty of a number they weren’t used to, but the surprise had soon given way to hilarity. Every one of Yuuri's falls or attempts at juggling was welcomed with a sonorous laugh, underlined by the sound of glasses and cutlery. The public laughed until Yuuri left the stage, exiting from one side while pretending to be dragged away by a mysterious force.

That night, Phichit wanted to have some fun in a nearby pub. The show, he said, had made him hungry, and there were better things than spending a Friday night at home. His plan, however, didn't meet much consent for the day. Seung-Gil had a hate for both British alcohol and the company of people, Guang-Hong knew better than to wander around instead of helping at home, and Leo admitted to be too tired after the day of work. 

"It's only me and you," Phichit pouted, an arm looped around Yuuri's shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Phichit. Not this time," Yuuri refuted. He smiled apologetically when Phichit pointed out he always uses the same excuses.

"Only a beer," Phichit insisted. It didn't make Yuuri change his mind one bit.

 

"And besides, someone has to take care of Som Tam, Yom and Chang," Yuuri commented. The argument must have hit the right nerve since Phichit's expression turned upside-down. A wrinkle of concern appeared in the middle of his forehead. 

"You are a treasure," he exclaimed, wrapping Yuuri in a quick hug. "But do you know the way home?" he asked. Indeed, Yuuri hadn't yet learnt to move with sureness in the streets of London, especially when it came to the poorest and most dangerous neighbourhoods. Remembering the welcoming Yuuri had received the instant he put foot in town, Phichit always insisted to accompany him when moving around.

 

"I can go with him. I'm on the way," Leo intervened.

Yuuri accepted his offer with gratitude, for it was better to not walk alone the badly lit streets from Hackney to Bethnal Green.

 

*** 

 

 

_Dear brother,_

_I will not hide this is the third time I try to put down this letter. My hands still tremble a bit and it is hard for me to hold the pen. I know long silences on your part had never been a complete novelty; but in your last letter you said to be in France without specifying the reasons behind a similar decision and, what most important, without an address to which reply. Then, again, there was only silence. I guessed it was for the better, as you seemed pretty worried in your latest letter. But not being able to communicate with you was still hard._

_This is why receiving a letter with news from you took us, me most of all, by surprise. You may be a grown man now, but in my mind you are still my little brother._

_Now, to answer your concerns about our well-being, here we are all fine, both in matter of health and business. The war had been lenient with Hasetsu and a still nice number of tourists fill the hot-springs. About young Minami, worry not. That boy dreams too much of becoming one day like you to ever even think to join the Army. He would as soon run away from home._

_I do not know what to think of you being now in England, apart from I have a good memory of the British customers we had._

_I told mom, as you wished me to do, about the delayed wedding. She shrugged and said waiting a little more will not harm anyone. I sometimes wonder where the line between joking and seriousness had blurred._

_I am addressing to you in all seriousness now, since I can sense something is off in your relationship with Victor a mile away. While I cannot judge a man I never met, I know you and I can read again the little you wrote about Victor in the past. The picture I got was of a man whose interest in you was sincere – he had as much to lose as you have. He put an excessive effort in courting you if he only wanted a fling and, sorry for the bluntness, you have many great qualities, but not the one rich European families look for when searching for a good match. But, as I proceed with reading your letter, it is clear you are aware of the silliness of your doubts. Sometimes the best thing to do is to stop and try to find a new perspective on things. Maybe Victor is suffering as much as you are from not having news from you._

_I have visited the temple to pray for a bit of extra protection, which I guess is more than needed in these times. I also trust that when this letter reaches you, you will have, as you say, a job and still a roof over your head. In the meanwhile, I took a new omamori for the temple, which you will find attached to the letter._

_We all wish you the best. We miss you a lot and we all hug you tight. Know we will always welcome you back with open arms._

_Love,_

_Your sister_

 

Yuuri shook the envelope to make the little object inside fall out onto the floor. He picked it up, a golden-yellow yakuyoke, a special omamori, to chase away evil spirits and forces. Yuuri traced with his fingers the embroidered letters on one side before tucking it in the safety of his pants pocket. It felt safe to have again the familiar weight of the omamori. 

A rush of affection for his family showered over him, and with it came homesickness. He bit his lip enough to draw blood to chase the tears away, for it wasn't the right time to subside to nostalgia, whether for his family or Victor. The name was barely a whisper in Yuuri's mind. 

A few days later the letter from Chris also arrived, a short message in which he informed Yuuri about how he had written to St. Petersburg but received no answer. The only time he attempted to call the Nikiforovs, the housekeeper had closed the call in his face, and after that attempt, the phone had rung in vain. Chris told Yuuri he had no reasons to doubt about Victor's love, referring to how much Victor had pined, to the point of being bothersome, when they were still courting each other.

 

_Dear Chris,_

_Your words bring me both relief and new concern. It is difficult to not worry after your latest adjournment, as the only reasons I can imagine for the Nikiforovs to not have a phone anymore are only the worst. I remember Victor's father to be extremely proud of that new piece of technology._

_Please, if you ever come to know something, anything, inform me. I prefer to be faced with reality than to dwell in doubt. Once I wouldn't talk like this, but things have changed._

_Best,_

_Yuuri_

He also wrote a quick letter to Hasetsu to be sent immediately. He would write a second one after the show at the Adelphi [4], which would be in a matter of days by know. 

 

***

The Adelphi theatre was not exactly behind the corner from Bethnal Green; one of the reasons why neither Yuuri nor Phichit rehearsed often at the theatre. When their sketches needed a revision, they preferred to meet with Celestino in less prestigious but nearer environs. The times a meeting at the Adelphi was required, they took an omnibus for a small portion of the road and walked for the rest. That evening, however, Phichit took a different turn from the usual to take the omnibus on the street where it always passed.

"Aren't we going to the theatre?" Yuuri asked with a frown on his forehead. Phichit flashed him one of his biggest grins in response.

"Of course. But I'm taking a different route," he explained, not stopping walking.

"A short ..." Yuuri began to question, stopping mid-word to find the right ending.

"A shortcut" Phichit finished for him. "Quite. I remembered you never took an underground train and I thought- what better occasion than today?"

 

In truth, Yuuri wasn't completely unfamiliar with the underground train system; he had already had a taste of it while in Paris, though only passingly and by a certain distance. He had seen the "Metrò" arches in lovely art deco iron decoration and the stairs leading underground. Sometimes he believed to hear the sound of the trains running under his feet. It was an expensive way to travel, however, and, at the time, not the best way to spend the little money he had. Yet, watching from afar could be only the peak of the whole.

The first stop was Stepney Green, at a thirty-minute walking from Bethnal Green; the ending, Aldgate East, after which they would have to take another carriage or walk for about an hour more, before arriving at Adelphi. Looking at the map attached to the wall of the underground in Stepney Green, Yuuri wondered if the experience counted more than the usefulness..

 

"Isn't it fascinating?" Phichit asked while buying tickets. He passed one to Yuuri, indicating him where to validate them.

"Is it safe?" Yuuri questioned as a flight of stairs led them further underground. He brushed his knuckles against the wall and knocked gently on it as to verify their solidity. His eyes raised to check the arcuate ceiling. 

"The safest," Phichit assured, his last world covered by the squeal of the incoming train halting. The doors slid open with a suction noise. Yuuri found himself thinking a similar way of transportation would have been perfect for St. Petersburg’s freezing winters, when it was so cold the less time spent outside, the better. Above all, the underground train was fast, faster than an omnibus, faster than walking - maybe even faster than surface train. It was amazing what engineering could do. All in all, the experience was worth the cost. Yuuri fluttered his eyes shut, trusting Phichit to wake him up at the right stop. 

"No need to worry. Our stop's the last one. You'll notice," Phichit assured him, before turning back to spying the newspaper a gentleman sat opposite to them was reading. Yuuri too had glanced, but the first page spotted no interesting news for him.

He saw the script behind his closed lids, the scene already all set on stage to give the illusion of kitchen and salon, where for fifteen minutes he and Phichit would run back and forth without ever crossing, messing up each other’s lives. The comedy relied on improvisation, and often an side-eye or a comment said under breath came to break the fourth wall; for the audience knew more than the characters themselves, but it would never tell them. The audience took pleasure in laughing at the expenses of the unfortunate protagonists.

 

Celestino's company used to exhibit late night when the low-end public substituted the prime time rich spectators. Women in long, fancy gowns and deliciously decorated hats, chaperoned by as elegant fathers, uncles, or husbands exited the theatre; factory workers in clean but weary clothes and housemaids with the day off in their Sunday best came in. 

Most of them could never set foot inside Mariinsky and, probably, the same could be said for several in the crowd of bourgeois parting ways to continue the night somewhere else. Yuuri and Phichit entered Adelphi from the backdoor. In the backstage Guang-Hong was warming his voice, as he would read poetries in between single sketches. Seung-Gil adjusted the tuxedo, the clothes he would wear as a goofy waiter. His frown gave away how little was he pleased with the sight. 

Phichit tapped on Yuuri's shoulder, pointing toward the room where the stage costumes were stored. There he picked a long, flowing gown from the rack, which he would wear to interp the satire of a rich American man who pursued a Thai woman not knowing she is in reality a fraud in disguise. Leo played the foolish bourgeois, something he was enthusiastic about. 

The sketch indeed turned out to be great. Soon, suffocated giggles spilled from Yuuri's fingers pressed on his mouth to avoid bursting into a sonorous cackling. For the first time in months, joyous tears lingered at the corner of his eyes. Thunderous laughters from the audience communicated how much the public loved watching Phichit fool round and round Leo in a ridiculous blonde wig, pretending to be the mysterious woman's brother. By the end of the sketch, the American man turned home with his heart broken and his wallet noticeably less full, and Phichit moved to the next victim.

The show ended up being a success.

 

_Dear brother,_

_It is raining as I write this card, a downpour, and the hot springs are a fret of activity. Rain always attracts new customers._

_We are currently hosting a small group of Russian officers, prisoners in a nearby camp, who had been given a special permit from what I understand._

_They all are acting nice and respectful, willing to surpass any language barrier. Understandably, they don't speak a word of Japanese. And their English is often so accented I find it hard to understand it. In any case, they eat like they hadn't touched food in years._

_But I'm going off-topic. It is 20th October today, so I trust this letter will be in your hand by your birthday; for that, I send you my best wishes. Sometimes I still cannot believe my little brother is now twenty-five. You were so small when you went away._

_You've grown up and now I'm old._

_Mom and dad wish you the best. They advise you to be patient, that things will soon improve. Even the longest night has to subside to the dawn._

 

_Love_

_Your sister_

 

_P.S. I hope to have chosen well for your gift_

 

Mari's birthday gift had been a traditional sand-coloured yunomi [5], with the silhouette of mountains painted in pitch-black ink around the brim. Phichit was out for some commissions, which would require his attention until late, and Yuuri had prepared tea to inaugurate the cup. He hoped it would help clear the dense fog filling his head since morning. 

It wasn't a rare occurrence to wake up to a metaphorically grey world, but today it seemed stronger than usual. If it hadn't been silly, Yuuri would've attributed it to being his birthday and he may have celebrated the day with Victor. His fingers continued to search for his old egg pendant, a tic Yuuri believed to have surpassed for months.

 

On the table, a newspaper was open on a page spotting a satirical vignette about the war. Yuuri had bought the copy more for the caricatures than for reading the news. Usually he would have found caricatural drawings offensive, but this one had managed to snatch a smile from him. 

He took the cup without thinking much about what he was doing, the ceramic warm against his naked hand. The tea was hot on his lips. It was plain black tea, with an hint of smoke. It reminded Yuuri of a variety Victor loved, the taste always rigorously hidden under spoonful over spoonful of sugar. Their tea-room would be so nice in that period of the year, with the fireplace already lit up for the winter, the samovar boiling, and the chatting of people huddling together for warm. The thought made Yuuri’s chest cling around the memory, melancholy filling his stomach in a wave of sadness.

The yunomi crashed on the floor.

Violent tremors shook his body covered in a layer of cold sweat. Yuuri sat among the scattered pieces of broken ceramic, the floor wet from the spilled tea. His hands continued to tremble, so much he couldn't even pick up the shatters. Sharp debris cut his fingers to blood, but it was nothing compared to the pain digging deep into his chest 

It hurt enough to stop his breathing, clawing at his ribcage, burning and devouring him from the inside. A void born from a too-long ignored desperation blossomed in Yuuri's stomach and even deeper, at the centre of his soul. He wished he could turn himself inside out and disappear, for maybe only that way he would be able to escape his own mind, and finally his chest would stop hurting, his body would stop trembling, and he wouldn't be alone anymore. 

Every fibre of his body screamed in pain, rooted in his heart, his spirit, his memory; it was finally exploding after months in which Yuuri had done all to suppress it, because he couldn't afford to crumble. Otherwise, they would have caught him. Now it spilled out the banks, drowning him, for Yuuri needed a single person and that person wasn't there with him now. He wished for Victor's arms around him, but Victor's wasn't there to hug him. Nor he could bury his face into Victor's chest, crying all his tears until the knot in his chest had melted away. Victor would kiss his tears dry, stretching a hand to him, and Yuuri would find himself dancing before he realized it. 

Victor wasn't there.

 

A storm of questions swirled in Yuuri's mind, unanswered for too long, each one giving fertile terrain to the worst possibilities. Nightmarish scenarios flashed before his open eyes, nourishing a guilt that never truly disappeared. He shouldn't have escaped from one day to the other but instead waited for Victor's return, and Victor would have surely been able to help him. He could've asked Yuri for a place to hide without having to leave St. Petersburg. The tears already prickling at the corners of Yuuri's eyes flooded his cheeks. An hurricane of _maybes_ twirled around him in storm. 

Maybe Victor had forgotten about him. Maybe it was all a lie. Maybe he wasn't worth the risk. Maybe Victor had got into trouble. Maybe he was ill. Maybe he had been sent to war. Maybe he had died. Maybe Victor was gone, and he wouldn't know until too late. Maybe Victor was angry with him for not having taken more initiative. 

A plethora of maybes, all piling up in avalanche.

Yuuri grabbed the cloth of his shirt where his heart beat, curling on the floor in fetal position. Tears rolled warm on even hotter skin, a strange contrast with the icy floor. Tiredness anchored his limbs down to the ground. It could be wonderful to close his eyes and discover it had been all nothing but a nightmare. A sleep stronger than the curse the witch sent on Aurora would fall on him and, once the incantation broken, Yuuri would be back in his room in St. Petersburg. Victor was still waiting for him at the tearoom, with that smile of his for which Yuuri would give the whole world. Maybe he could even wake up in Victor's embrace, their bodies pressed together under the covers. Victor would've kissed his nape, telling him it was all a bad dream. It never happened. 

Victor wasn't there. Yuuri wished he could tear his heart from his chest, because it was so painful.

 

The little pouch Guang-Hong's grandmother had gifted him was still hidden in the pillow, holding the sweet promise of making the pain go away. Yuuri was tired to feel pain. He was alone and so tired. 

Only this time, he told himself, getting up and grabbing the little box. Only this time, he repeated, opening it and pouring his content into a long pipe. Only this time, he said, struggling to lighten a match with his trembling hands. He burnt his fingers. He tried again. The pipe started to produce smoke. The smell was strong, it made Yuuri nose itch. Only this time. He brought the pipe to his lips and inhaled.

 

It didn't take much before the opium welcomed him in his sweet, dangerous embrace. 

***

Yuuri was drowsing in a vague, floating realms of half-shadows, unable to say if a second or a century had passed, when the door opened up with violence. Yuuri blinked in the sudden light, trying to bring into focus the silhouette standing in the doorway. The world was blurry without his glasses on. The figure was on him in few paces, crouching, murmuring words Yuuri couldn't quite comprehend. He sounded worried. Yuuri could hear only bits. He was floating in water. His head felt very light.

"Victor?" he wondered out loud, reaching out a hand to touch the figure. "You finally came."

The figure moved closer. Now Yuuri could see him better. No, it wasn't Victor. Victor had fair skin and blue eyes and silver hair. The figure had copper skin, dark hair, dark eyes. He was holding something, bringing it to Yuuri's lips: tea. He sputtered it. The figure helped him in drinking again. He put also something in Yuuri's hands: his glasses.

The figure's traits became clearer. The voice not so much.

"Yuuri, are you alright? I can smell opium. Why, that stuff is dangerous. You shouldn't have."

Phichit was chastising him, the epitome of concern painted on his usually cheerful face. A deep wrinkles was crossing his brow. He took Yuuri's hand in his. 

Yuuri broke. 

 

He burst in tearless sobs, his chest going up and down at the rhythm of his uneven breath.

 

***

 

 

"Who is Victor?" Phichit asked, serving Yuuri a thick, good-smelling soup. Yuuri drank it directly from the bowl, basking in the warmth of the spicy liquid. 

"The person for whom I care the most," he answered, his lips brushing against the bowl brim. "Apart from my parents and sister," he added. "My beau. We weren't officially engaged. Not yet, at least." He curled his hands around the still lukewarm bowl as Phichit put under his nose another, fresh cup of tea.

"And then what happened?" 

Yuuri sighed in discomfort, rubbing his forehead in hope to stop an impending headache from exploding. "Wish I knew."

Phichit raised an eyebrow at him. Probably he should start from the beginning, something he had avoided to do up to now, claiming it was safer this way. Now, however, he noticed it had only contributed in piling extra worries in his head until the inevitable breaking point.

"Damn," was Phichit first reaction when Yuuri had finished the whole story, from the day he had to escape from Russia. He had glossed over everything happening before, not wanting to annoy Phichit with lovey-dovey description of courting. 

"So you last heard about him in July?" Phichit asked. 

"Indirectly. Directly in May. With a letter sent in April."

"And since then you had no news at all?" Phichit insisted. There was a mixture of disbelief and reprimand in his voice. Yuuri shook his head, chin put on the table.

"Not at all."

Phichit made a thoughtful sound, fingers tapping on the wood, his normally cheerful face now with the seriousness and concentration of a chess player. Yuuri could almost guess the reasoning behind his friend's frown. 

"You a never wrote to him directly in these past months?" Phichit resumed his questions.

"Yes," Yuuri confirmed. Before Phichit could express the doubts Yuuri read in his eyes, he hastened to explain: "I thought it was safer for all."

"But it is possible to send a letter without an address if you were afraid to disclose your whereabouts."

Yuuri wished it could be that easy, as Phichit listed the good reasons for which he should be the first to break the silence between him and Victor. It could work if Victor lived in a country like England, not in Russia. He would bet his freedom on the presence of Okhrana agents in St. Petersburg postal offices, who would track his letters back to his home, after having registered even the commas; unless he wrote from a different city and wrote without a signature, saying nothing important, maybe even masquerading his hand-writing. It would be as good as writing nothing.

"I cannot get Vitya ... Victor into even more trouble." 

"How?" Phichit insisted

"For having associated with me, a presumptive spy. I'm a stranger, from an enemy country. I told you."

"But you aren't. A spy, I mean."

"Not at all. Have I been, I guess I would have at least a backup."

Yuuri hiccuped a laugh, knocking down the remnants of by now cold tea like a shot of vodka. Maybe Phichit was right and it was time for him to take the situation back in his own hands, as all other roads had failed. If the Okhrana hunted him again, he could try and take a chance, running at the embassy. No, the real restraint had been the fear of putting Victor in danger. The risk was not worth it. 

"I'll probably write again to a mutual friend of ours, pray him to go to St. Petersburg to see how things really are," he eventually resumed speaking, talking more to himself than to Phichit. 

His stomach grumbled, breaking the tension in a way so absurd Yuuri soon found himself laughing, overflown with hysterical hilarity, until tears spilled again from his eyes in full catharsis.

"Do you have anymore of that soup? I think better with a full stomach."

"Unfortunately no. But I know a place that makes one almost as good," Phichit replied, grabbing his and Yuuri's coats from the hanger, with an expression so determined Yuuri knew better than to protest. 

 

***

In the following days, Phichit never left Yuuri alone in fear he would have another breakdown. At first, the kind gesture had been nice, but now it was becoming exasperating.

A week after the episode, Yuuri finally managed to convince Phichit he wouldn't go crazy if he spent some hours at home alone. Phichit had grocery shopping to do and Yuuri claimed to be too tired to go out - especially after having spent the night before drinking and having fun until late to celebrate a successful show night.

 

Yuuri waved his legs in the air and lay down on his stomach with an old book of children’s fairytales open on the pillow. Reading of abandoned orphans and regretted princess who eventually gained their happy ending elicited a lingering melancholy in the back of his mind, but nothing with which he couldn't deal; it wouldn't send him to crawl on the floor in desperation.

He turned the page when a barking at the entrance attired his attention.

"Phichit?" Yuuri called, getting up. More barking came, along with the sound of human steps and keys launched on the table.

 

"Yeah ... ah, stop it," Phichit yelled words in between giggles. "Can you - down - come to the kitchen?"

The show in the kitchen left Yuuri's mouth agape. Phichit was crouching on the floor, cooing words of praise to a ball of brown fur, which jumped around the man with puppy-like enthusiasm. "Yuuri, there you are." Phichit smiled at him. He pointed at the puppy with a bit of theatrical gesture. "A rescue. For you." 

It was a tiny poodle. Yuuri wondered if Fate had a thing for torturing his poor soul, and he burst into tears. The puppy ran to his legs, whining in dismay, and scratched at them them with his little canine nails until Yuuri resigned to scoop him into his arms. The dog started immediately to lick the tears from his face.

"Stop it, that tickles," Yuuri laughed, as the poodle barked and squirmed with enthusiasm, pushing his chest. 

"Look, he likes you," Phichit laughed. "And I hope those were tears of joy."

"Yes … overall," Yuuri admitted, explaining Victor had a poodle too and the new puppy had reminded him of happy times. Sometimes the chances of life are truly the strangest. 

"You need a name." Yuuri scratched the toy poodle under the chin, eyes spacing out in the void as he reflected on the matter until his lips mouthed the answer. 

"Vicchan," he declared and was glad Phichit didn't ask further questions, for in case he would have to explain why he chose the Japanese diminutive of his beloved's name. But for Yuuri it had been almost natural, when looking at Vicchan was enough to remind him of Victor. Vicchan panted happily his approval.

 

"Now," Phichit began once Vicchan had been curled to sleep on Yuuri's thighs, "back to serious matters."

Yuuri nodded, fingers still carding through his new puppy’s soft fur. The calming effect the gesture had provided useful when Phichit announced, "I'm going to Russia." 

Had Yuuri being drinking something, he would've spluttered it all over; but he wasn't and, besides, months of surprises had made his skin tougher. 

"I cannot allow it," he refuted, going straight to the point. "I'll ask Chris or something. I don't want that country to swallow someone else," he muttered, almost more to himself than Phichit. He pronounced "that country" as it had a bad taste. Once he believed he could come to consider Russia as a second home, but now the thought seemed nothing but naive.

"It won't happen, trust me," Phichit interjected. Yuuri still wasn’t convinced.

 

"Even so, you need a visa from a Russian embassy or consulate. A passport is not enough."

"I have one," Phichit countered without skipping a beat. "Well, I'll have one soon," he specified, and when Yuuri pointed out obtaining a visa was a matter of weeks, he smiled with sureness. "Trust me, I have contacts." 

Yuuri scratched Vicchan behind the ears, lowering his eyes in reflection. The voice of reason was telling him Phichit’s plan was pure craziness, and yet, it was better than any other his mind could produce at the moment. Chris would probably be busy with the preparation for the opening season at La Scala in December, and Yuuri knew better than to ask a fellow danseur to leave training with such an important deadline approaching. He could as well take all his courage and write a letter to Victor, but without the guarantee to receive a response, it was almost useless. 

"Would you do that for me?" 

"Of course," Phichit assured. Yuuri looked him in the eyes, for the man had already helped him up and down. In his adulthood, Yuuri had never considered others to be friends of his, never on a level above simple acquaintances. But, stopping in reflection, he thought he may change his mind with Phichit. The realization gave him one reason more to not let him pursue his intention ~~s~~ , but in the end the curiosity born from desperation had the upper hand. 

 

***

 

 

_My dearest, Vitya,_

_I feel this letter difficult to write, as my thoughts are too fast for my hand and pen; unhappy thoughts, I have to say, which make my words heavy and my hand slow. And since they are so heavy, forgive me if I let go immediately of this weight which had keep …. my back and my heart since the cursed day I had to go away, without even the possibility to tell you a proper goodbye._

 

_Why did you stop writing? What happened to prevent you from letting someone know how you were doing in these long months? I have been patient. I kept telling myself the silence was for safety, kept remembering the times we spent together to find strength. I considered love is stronger than distances and should be patient in times of trouble, praying to the gods for strength to sail across what I hoped would be only a temporary condition._

_I admit to have doubted your feelings, supposed you just moved on with your life after a fling not worthy of your career and well being. If it happens to be the truth, I prefer to hear it in all its cruel clarity._

_Though I find it hard to believe the Vitya who held me the last time we spoke could have ever done all he did only for a whim. Yet, sometimes this anguish in my soul becomes unbearable with nightmarish vision. What’s worse, all I have left of your love are memories, which as you know, are prone to fade away like a flickering candle._

_I will not send this letter but let a trusted person consign it in your hands - he won't go away until he receives an answer, I warn you._

_I pray he'll bring back hopeful news._

_Know that I love you,_

_Yuuri_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Now Poplar High Street and site for the first European Chinatown  
> [2] Historically London poor neighbourhood  
> [3] London theatre, built in 1901 as music hall  
> [4] London theatre  
> [5] Informal Japanese tea cup, resembling a mug
> 
> I’m back. Did you spend a good summer? Personally, I’m clinging to the last remnants of warm and sun. Yes, I’m a cold-blooded animal for whom any temperature below 25°C is cold. 
> 
> I must say this was one of my favourite chapters to write, the scene of Yuuri’s anxiety attack one of the first I wrote, which lead to some terrifying minutes were I thought I had lost it all. Then, I found the snippet again.
> 
> The same scene gave me some doubts on whether actually use it or not, due to the drug usage. In the end, I grabbed to my belief that conflict and mistakes and, yes, even immoral actions are part of a good narrative. 
> 
> Talking about opium, the second half of the 19th century had been the period where the British government had emanated a series of act (like the Pharmacy Act) to better control and legalise the commercialisation of opium. Opium dens, however, continued to be present in a more or less tolerated way up to the 1920s and further.  
> Still, I just scratched the surface of this matter, so better to shut up before saying any foolish thing.
> 
> I admit the London Tube scene was completely self-indulgent. Still, I had quite the hard time to compare the today Tube map and the history of the rails to see which path could have been used at the time. 
> 
> The comedy of mistaken identity that Yuuri and Phichit interprets is a quote to the farse “Box and Cox” by John Maddison Morton. 
> 
> In the original plan Yuuri should’ve had his break-down later and for a different reason. Then, I considered it would really be too late and so the future plot changed accordingly, including the decision of having Phichit as messenger. 
> 
> Phichit’s favourite incense was jasmine at the first draft. Then, I remembered to have read how in South Easian culture (and I apologise if I am generalising), jasmine perfume is associated with the presence of dark spirits.
> 
> Also for this chapter, all the info about London, the early Edwardian era and England in general are courtesy of [nerdqueenblogbitches](https://nerdqueensblogbitches.tumblr.com) and [whileileavetheground](https://whileileavetheground.tumblr.com). They both have been extremely kind, patient and helpful. 
> 
> [ Curlavski](http://curlavski.tumblr.com) and [ Dev_Writes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dev_Writes) are a blessing as always. 
> 
> Check out the adorable mood board that Shemakesmeforget made for me [here](https://shemakesmeforget.tumblr.com/post/177567136494/crois%C3%A9s-%C3%A9cart%C3%A9s-entrelac%C3%A9s-by-gwen-chan-fic)
> 
> I created a discord channel for me to chat (and rant) with people ( about writing and art (mostly writing). You can consider it as a big DVD commentary on what I write, the random thoughts during the writing process, the writing advices I consider useful. There are also deleted scenes from CEE and snippets from future chapters and other projects. 
> 
> If you are interested, you can join [here](https://discord.gg/fHzDsFT). I promise I don’t bite
> 
> As always my ask box, mail, DM, whatever is always open. Come to say hello at [ gwen-chan](http://gwen-chan.tumblr.com)  
> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * Constructive criticism
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> The author replies to comments
> 
> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I’m reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example), feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!“


	11. Le cygne fermé

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for blood and graphic violence. If you are uncomfortable with these themes, you can stop reading at "Soon this will be over." I will be happy to summarise what's happened in the less dramatic way possible. Also, this chapter deals with imprisonment and derived stress.

**Le cygne fermé**

 

The cacophonic ringing of Petropavlovskaya bells tore Victor from his half-asleep state. He was lying on his belly, his left arm all pins and needles and his cheek pressed against _Crime and Punishment_ , open at the page where Raskolnikov flees from the murder scene with his hands drenched in the Ivanova sisters’ blood.

Groaning through gritted teeth, Victor rearranged his body to a more dignified sitting position, his back against the damp wall, rubbing away a thin trail of dry saliva at the corner of his lips. His eyes blinked in that kind of fogginess a short and spontaneous nap usually leaves.

There was a fold on the page against which he had slept, an addition to a book already not in the best condition and carrying the story of the people who had held it before. Victor placed the novel under the feeble October light coming from the window and soon immersed in Raskolnikov's delirious runaway from the police. After having read it already twice, he ended up focusing more on the details than on the overall plot. In the deepest of his own mind, he carried the hope his Fate would be different and more merciful than how the book ended.

Often reading was the only thing to keep his mind occupied, though forcing it to not wander was an exercise of discipline Victor had yet to master.

At a month and a half since his arrest, no news from the outside world had come to his ears whatsoever. His fervid imagination and flair for the dramatic made his mind prone to conjuring up scenarios worthy of the most tragic novels. He knew better than to hope for a quick resolution, perfectly aware that first month was only the beginning of a slow but steady decline in wait for a sentence to be carried out.

As strange as it was given the circumstances of his arrest, no one has questioned him yet.

Victor had yet to decide if it was more a secret police tactic to instil fear and monster his will, or if, more simply, the Okhrana already had everything they needed to know. His connection with Yuuri and desire to reunite with him, his disappointment with the government actions... it was all written in the letters, black on white, so clear it still made Victor cringe for his own naivety. Sure, he never sold any piece of information about his own country, but in Russia, a phrase was often enough; doubt became stronger than evidence. 

He gripped logic and reasoning to keep the tension at bay, repeating to himself the times of capricious judges had long passed. It didn't alleviate the weight of the imaginary cord around his neck he often felt in the middle of the night when he woke up drenched in acrid sweat from a nightmare he couldn't remember. 

They couldn't kill him for a crime he refuted as soon as he committed it, an isolated burst of passion because of a prolonged period of tension. 

Victor knew his greatest guilt in the authorities' eyes was to have had intimate contacts with a supposed spy, pursuing them after having been informed of the charges against Yuuri. They made him vibrate with rage in their falsity every time.

There were times, increasingly frequent times, in which Victor caught himself hoping those charges were cleared, for in a cold corner of his mind he knew it would benefit him and soften the final punishment. Horror and disgust filled him as soon as he formulated the thought. How egotistical and petty of him to wish for Yuuri's innocence to be proven for no other reason than his own good, when Yuuri was more at risk. No fear of death or worst punishment could justify it.

Yuuri, oh Yuuri ... Sergej Anatolič, may his soul be cursed, must have also revealed his location. Victor could only pray Yuuri had managed to sneak away, as he would never forgive himself if anything happened to his beloved. God, he had served Yuuri to the Okhrana on a silver platter. From time to time, he found himself hoping Sergej Anatolič had long forgotten about Yuuri’s address, as he had never had any intention to use that piece of information.

Looking down, Victor noticed he was holding the book sides with enough intensity his knuckles had turned white. He forced himself to relax his hands, setting the novel aside after one last attempt to follow Raskolnikov’s issues without getting distracted after a few words.

Apart from reading or sleeping, walking was the only distraction offered in the limited space of the cell, and Victor had already marched for kilometres compressed in a tiny bundle. In theory, the system granted a twenty-minute walk a day to the prisoners, but for reasons which may be related as much to the weather as to the punishment, it has been more than a week since his last stroll outside the cell.

Victor pondered about asking for a new book, wondering if he would be allowed again to walk to the prison library and choose a book himself. The guard from the last time had been almost kind. He hadn't said a single word but also had allowed Victor to shuffle through the books, offering him all the time he needed.

The clank of something against the cell bars stole his attention. Framed by them stood a gaoler with dinner. As usual, the man inserted the tray into the slot without speaking a word.

At the beginning, there had been a Colonel who every afternoon came to ask Victor if he wanted to buy tobacco, but after the umpteenth refusal, he had stopped trying. Now he passed in front of Victor's cell without as much as a second glance.

Victor regretted his choice. Maybe a word from a human being was worth picking up smoking. Madame Baranovskaya never missed a chance to warn against what she considered a devil habit, but Victor had also grown up watching both his father and "uncle" Misha smoke, and they were still in good health.

"Tell the cook it was good," he commented, giving back the now empty tray, eyes shimmering with the flickering hope for any possible answer, which again didn't come.

It had been a month since his arrest and Victor, so getting used to being surrounded by people loving and praising him, was starting to feel the effect of isolation. Touch starved, he wrapped his arms around his chest and flopped on the bed, his eyes soon losing focus in the darkness of the cell as he escaped in a mental rehearsal of one of the parts he used to dance. But they too had started to mingle and Soblazneniye printsa, which he could never forget, carried too many memories. 

 

***

The sun had already sunk behind the line of the horizon when a knock at his studio door forced Aleksey to unglue his eyes from the pile of paper before him.

He moved some aside to make room for the tray with tea and some snacks Alina carried. A single look at the clock on the wall communicated he had lost track of time; it was way after the usual hour for dinner. Aleksey opened his mouth to reprimand Alina for not having interrupted him before, until he remembered he had given specific instructions against it.

"Thank you," he said instead, frowning over the first sip of hot tea. He had also forgotten to take Makkachin out. Luckily, Alina had taken care of it herself.

"We had a nice walk," she reassured him. Aleksey nodded, biting into a cold sandwich, which he soon devoured with a hunger he hadn't noticed up to now because of being so immersed in his work.

Working had become the only way to not think about how things were turning on the bad side; not to obsess over his Viten'ka being in prison. Lord knew what was happening behind the closed door of the investigation or how long would it be before the trial. 

At least there were Mila’s visits every other Sunday to distract them and cheer the atmosphere.

"Any news about Vitya?" he asked, the dullness in his tone revealing he’d already faced a great number of denials

Alina's answer only confirmed his worries, affirming the prison authorities didn't allow visits yet. "But there's also a letter from Mikhail," Alina continued, picking an envelope from an apron pocket. Aleksey opened it with a sharp gesture.

_Lyosha,_

_I believe you need a distraction. If nothing happens, God willing, Vanya will be home. Finally. We would be happy to have you at dinner, like the old times._

_Misha_

Thus, Ivan Babichev had obtained a permit to leave the war front. Aleksey hadn't followed the matter much, but apparently, Vanya had been injured during the battle of Lyadoang. It was a minor injury, but it had granted him the possibility to return home for a while.

Mikhail would have soon his family reunited. Aleksey couldn't sleep at night thinking about his son in a cell in the Trubetskoy Bastion. For the first time in years, a shot of envy toward his best friend cut through him sharp like a blade; a shadow, which disappeared as fast as it had come, leaving behind only shame. Misha had always helped him, his door open no matter the hour. Aleksey and Victor could go as far as to knock without a warning and receive the best hospitality. Most recently, Misha had used his legal expertise to direct Aleksey toward a good lawyer, exploiting personal links to obtain a favourable price. Though money wasn’t a priority for Aleksey when his son's well-being was at stake.

He scribbled a quick answer to thank Mikhail for the invitation and to accept it.

"You should stop. Too much work will only do you harm," Alina commented, taking both the note and the empty tray. She had been at Nikiforovs’ service long enough to feel entitled to speak her mind without fear of repercussion, especially since her suggestions usually proved to be good and wise.

"Yes, I should," Aleksey admitted, blowing out the gas lamp on the desk and getting up, joints cracking for having been sitting for hours. Before leaving, he picked up a book to read through the night.

When Yuri Plisetsky had explained the circumstances leading to Victor's arrest, with the expression of a person struggling to keep polite, Aleksey's first reaction had been incredulity. In recent months Vitya's mood had seemed to improve, but Aleksey had attributed it to his son’s usual optimism, for how little Vitya could fool him in the end. He may be often away for business reasons, but he could still recognize when something was troubling his son - like the terror hidden behind a stretched smile when Vitya had explained what happened at Verzbolovo border. Never would he have imagined Victor had made contact with a revolutionary group to keep in touch with Yuuri Katsuki.

The police came to the house, but no association whatsoever with revolutionary literature had been found in the Nikiforovs’ house - Plisetsky and Altin had been masters of not leaving any trace behind.

Sometimes Aleksey wished Yuuri Katsuki had never entered their life, for everything had started from that Japanese man. Hadn't it been for Yuuri, Victor would still be safe and sound at home, able to leave and go as he pleased, without police agents roaming around.

Without Yuuri, Vitya would still be at home, snuggled against Makkachin, for he had no friends apart from the Swiss man, with a dull smile on his face. Aleksey wasn’t blind to how ballet had demanded Victor's uttermost dedication and fidelity, leaving no space for life or love. In the end, he was a too smart a man not to admit Yuuri Katsuki had been a blessing for Vitya, nothing less.

Compared to Vitya's happiness, Katsuki being a supposed spy was of secondary importance; on the understanding, Aleksey would've never forgiven the man if he had ever discovered he played with his son's feelings. Katsuki had seemed sincere, though, when Aleksey had inquired about his intentions. Neither shying away nor shouting a love for the whole town to hear, Yuuri Katsuki had assured what mattered in the end: that he would never hurt Vitya. Had he been a gold digger, he would have proposed as soon as he had the opportunity. Had he wanted a fling, he would've disappeared without leaving a trace. Neither one of them happened. 

No, Katsuki Yuuri was as innocent as Viten'ka, if not more; he was a man who loved Vitya deeply. Had Yuuri ever asked it, Aleksey would gladly give him his blessing to marry his son.

***

The dinner in Vanya's honour was nicer than Aleksey had imagined, which in the end shouldn't have been a true surprise given how, from his personal experience, the Babichevs always provided their guests with nothing but excellent food and company.

Moreover, having all the attention toward Vanya proved to be a pleasant diversion. With a bit of imagination, Aleksey could convince himself it was a normal dinner like those they had when Vitya was in Paris and Vanya home for some days from his military service.

"I hope Vitya will be fine," Ivan said when Aleksey took his leave.

"Thank you. Take care. Young and strong men like you shouldn't be put in danger."

Only a few days after the dinner, Alina announced the presence of an unexpected and, as far as Aleksey was allowed to say, unwelcome visitor.

"Prince Gorchakov?" he muttered in disbelief.

"And his daughters," the housemaid pointed out. The disbelief became annoyance, expressed with a long and deep huff, as Aleksey twisted the sash of his robe between thumb and index finger with a nervousness he couldn't hide. Still, he had to, for the Prince was a potentially dangerous man with the right connection to hurt Victor had he ever had a penchant in that direction. Not that Aleksey had any intention to subdue to whatever prince Gorchakov’s demand, but it would be stupid to put a refusal before having heard it. 

"Shall I allow them to enter?" Alina insisted. 

"Oh, yes, yes. I have a reputation to maintain. Make sure their highnesses have all they need. Is the fireplace well lit? They must be cold. It's snowing outside," Aleksey listed the instructions to make their guests at ease.

"Also, open that bottle of vintage brandy," he continued, trying to suppress a new groan without much success. 

"The one from France? Weren't you saving that for a special occasion? Like Vitya's thirtieth birthday or his wedding?" Alina protested.

"I suppose receiving a Prince's visit is a special occasion."

He glanced up at Alina who couldn't hide her disapproval to save her life, with her her arms now crossed over her chest and her lips pursued; that pose meant trouble, reserved for the occasions when Vitya misbehaved as a kid. 

"What do you suggest?" 

"Offer a different bottle. The cabinet has plenty," Alina commented, to Aleksey's eventual satisfaction. 

Knowing he left the illustrious guests in Alina's good hands, he took his sweet time getting dressed. He repeated it was to show he was still the owner in his house. There was no reason to be afraid. 

"To what do I do the honour of this unexpected visit?" he welcomed the Prince and the three princesses, apologising for the wait. 

The Prince waved away his concerns, gesturing for Aleksey to sit down as if he was the host and master of the house. Aleksey did with a greater confidence, flopping down on the couch like an heavy pound. 

The salon wasn't the room he would've chosen to discuss any matter, but his studio was not suited for the princesses, whom Prince Gorchakov had insisted to be present. They were both sitting on the ottoman. The eldest was approaching her mid-thirties, the youngest was two years older than Victor. 

"I'm here to propose you a deal," the Prince began, with a bit of hesitation over the last word. "A way out of this unfortunate situation," he added, putting the accent on the adjective. Aleksey sat silent in wait for the Prince to continue, gritting teeth behind closed lips. If the girls' presence was anything to go by, he already imagined what the request would be. 

"As you may know, I have connections. The right ones to free your son from prison without further consequence. In exchange I don't ask much, only that Victor marries my eldest daughter."

Prince Gorchakov had done well in choosing the right moment to approach, and though Aleksey wouldn't have defined it as perfect, he could feel the cold calculation dictating his guest's action; immediately after Vitya's arrest would be too early, but if he waited too long, he would risk Aleksey spending all his wealth in hiring a good lawyer.

For how much he hated to admit it, on paper it was a great offer, provided the Prince kept his promise. A marriage with a Russian princess would be profitable for him, introducing Victor in circles he could only brush against up to then, a bliss for his public image in the long run. Everything would be perfect, except for the tiny detail it would make Vitya miserable, from one cage to another. 

If there was something Aleksey cared for more than his business, it was his son. 

"I'm afraid I'll have to refuse," was Aleksey's final verdict.

Prince Gorchakov went red in the face. Aleksey turned his attention to the eldest princess. She could've been beautiful with the right hacks, but from what rumours said, her tempestuous character ruined it. Still, it was no good excuse to make her suffer* with a clear refusal without providing a much due explanation. 

Aleksey told her he would sooner kill himself than give Victor sorrow. Of course, an unhappy marriage was nothing compared to a death sentence or exile. Vitya would probably hate him for his whole life if he ever accepted this pact, but a father goes this far for a son's sake. 

Supporters of convenience marriages would say that Victor's being in love with someone else was of minor importance, when in time he would learn to forget an old lover and appreciate his wife; love flickers, jumping from heart to heart, a caprice falling as quick as it was built. They would say all of this and more, with Aleksey nodding and not agreeing with a single word.

He could already see it all, the marriage, Vitya and the princess both carrying the wedding candles, crowned in golden glory, and Viten'ka with the look of a man walking to the gallows. For an instant, the crazy idea of accepting the offer, only to help Victor escape the instant he stepped out of prison, crossed Aleksey's mind quick like a lightning, but the risks were too many to consider.

Normally he would take them without a second thought, but this time the stakes were to high.

Prince Gorchakov had undoubtedly made plans that he wasn’t revealing to Aleksey, ensuring somehow that Victor would sign the marriage papers and not disappear from Russia or elope. 

"The thing is," he reprised after a significant pause, "I cannot also condemn a stranger to a life of regret. You would live with a man who actively hates you or is completely indifferent, depending on how things evolve. I suppose he would be nice and kind, lying with you and giving you a child. I suppose he would be a loving father. But in time you would discover he is not there. Because, you see, Vitya is in love with someone else and I'm one of those fools who still believes in love."

Prince Gorchakov couldn't help but inserting himself into the conversation. "His lover is a stranger, a danger, an enemy, who does not and will not ever belong with us. I did my research, he is not even baptized. The church would never accept to marry them."

"Well, we must hope for civil weddings to be legalized," Aleksey commented, sipping from his glass. "In any case, I cannot and will not accept your kind offer."

Prince Gorchakov’s face was now bordeaux-red, and there was no question as to whether the brandy had anything to do with his complexion, as the man had barely taken a sip. His hands were still nursing the glass steam, frozen in the instant. 

"I suggest you to think thoroughly about this. I could have your son out by the end of next month."

The Prince's words had a certain restraint in them, the presence of that subtle anger and indignation Aleksey had often seen in men who believed they had the upper hand during a negotiation, only to find it ending differently from what they had planned. He wondered if the Prince was swallowing the insults because of etiquette; or if the man still hoped to change his mind. 

"I don't doubt that. However, cannot let my son pass from one prison to a second, by any other name," he stated, his tone dropping to the coldness he reserved to the few people whose company he didn't enjoy one bit. "I know my son. He would take Siberia over an arranged marriage without a second thought. Besides, like he would have more chances to reunite with his beloved."

It was a strong statement to pronounce; an expression of courage Vitya may not have or, if once had, lost it in the long nights at the Trubetskoi bastion. It wouldn't be the first time the perspective of the unforgiving, distant, and icy lands of Siberia blew away a man's bravery in a rush of freezing wind. Still, if Vitya's dedication to finding and reuniting with Yuuri Katsuki was anything to go by, he would not bend. Love bloomed the best in hard times.

"If there is nothing else, Alina will escort you to the door."

Prince Gorchakov hesitated, his lips and cheeks twitching for a word still in bloom that never made into sound. Eventually, he just choked out a thanks for the hospitality. His daughters didn’t even attempt politeness. The eldest, whom Aleksey had wanted to save from a disgraceful wedding, shot him a poisonous glare, chin up-high, before turning her head to the other side and following her father out of the room.

***

November passed in the blink of an eye, marking two months since Victor's arrest. Two months during which not once Aleksey had been allowed to talk with his son, let alone see him. He suspected Prince Gorchakov had his fair share of responsibility.

Aleksey had spent the first two weeks of December, which normally would've been filled with the usual preparations for Christmas and Victor's birthday, talking with lawyers and tending to his business. He had cancelled every pending meeting with potential suppliers and clients, the fear something would happen in his absence too great for him to risk it. Fabrics from his historical sources still came, but slower and more erratic. When Aleksey had asked him about the financial situation, Illič hadn't been able to hide the grimace on his face. 

Things weren't brighter in the fabric shop, faithful customers soon being the only ones to cross that threshold. Aleksey blamed that partly on a matter of reputation, partly on the impact the war was having on people’s pockets. Having to increase the prices hadn't helped sales in the slightest.

It was strange to think in a matter of months it would be a year since that whole issue began. Where* before one could still dabble in the illusion that the distant war wouldn't touch them, now people were being forced to face reality. Those who were able already left St. Petersburg. Houses slowly emptied and carriages brought entire families to safer, quieter locations.

It was the second Sunday of December when Aleksey came home from church to be informed by Alina that a guest was waiting in the living room, wishing to talk with him. "He asked about Vitya. When I told him Vitya wasn't here, he insisted he had to talk with someone here at least."

Aleksey frowned. "I told you not to accept guests in my absence," he reprimanded, one among the numerous changes the recent events had brought. The Babichevs were the only exception, but Aleksey had parted ways with them at church.

Alina didn't bat an eyelash, her whole figure strong in the sureness of having done the right thing. She always took a deep offense in even the insinuation her actions would cause damage to the Nikiforov and their house. _More than thirty years of service!_ she ranted on those occasions.

"I know, but this man affirmed to have news for Viten'ka, about Yuuri."

Any further objection died on Aleksey's tongue. He followed Alina into the living room, where the housemaid had accommodated their mysterious guest. In few words said in a low tone, Alina also informed Aleksey about the guest’s supposed provenance, London, and how atrocious his Russian was. Aleksey listened absentmindedly.

The stranger was sitting on the edge of the main blue couch before the lit fireplace, his hands outstretched toward the source of warmth. He was well dressed, but wrinkles from the long train journey covered his clothes. 

Above all, the colour of his skin and features didn't go unnoticed. Before him was a tray with a fuming teapot and two cups, as Alina was never one to forego hospitality

"Aleksey Andreevich?" the stranger asked. As soon as Aleksey confirmed, he continued, "Nice to meet you. My name is Phichit Chulanont. Yuuri sent me. I'm afraid this is the only Russian I speak."

He rushed out the whole sentence like a student reciting a memorized poem. Like Alina had warned, Chulanont's Russian was terrible. 

"Parlez-vous français?"[1] Aleksey wondered, meeting a vigorous denial.

"English?" he tried again, and this time Chulanont beamed in understanding. It could have been worse. 

"If that's the case, I'm curious to hear the news you bring. Still, what guarantee can you give that I can trust you?" he said, flopping down in an armchair, after having scooted it nearer to the sofa.

"The first time you spoke with Yuuri face to face was at a dinner when he danced a ... kalinka?"

Aleksey nodded. "With Victor. He didn't imagine receiving the shovel talk so early. He also mentioned that painting." Chulanont pointed a finger toward the Hokusai on opposite wall. "A gift from a generous client. He never heard the rest of the story."

Aleksey felt a subtle but persistent tension, the one born from the fear of being lied to, lift from his shoulders. He glanced at the painting, remembering with sudden clarity that Sunday in spring, Vitya and Yuuri both soaked to the bones, Vitya dragging away Yuuri in his bedroom before they could get sick.

"Alright, I trust you."

Aleksey listened carefully to everything Chulanont had to say, each piece of new information going to complete the whole picture. It looked like Katsuki had suffered the same doubts and loneliness as Vitya, without the relief of a blissful lie. Aleksey wondered how it would've been for him if, when young, he stopped receiving news from his beloved Irin’ka. It would have made him go crazy with worry for sure.

"I see," he muttered, fingers intertwined in his lap, when Chulanont stopped speaking. He proceeded to explain everything he knew about the letters scam. Stupor and focus passed on Chulanont’s features.

"Mr. Nikiforov, may I ask where Victor is? I came here to talk with him, but your housemaid said he couldn't be present. Has something happened to him?"

The question pierced through Aleksey with the cruelty of reality. Vitya would have been delighted in learning Yuuri was fine and had not forgotten about him, but Lord knew when he would have the possibility to hear that.

"Yes, something happened. I'm afraid there isn't good news here," he admitted. The words grated out like sandpaper against his tongue. He poured himself a cup of tea. "My Viten'ka won't be home for a long time. Two months ago, the police arrested him."

A deep, long silence followed the confession, so heavy Aleksey felt the eventual urge to break it himself.

"But if it can be of any relief, I have reason to believe Vitya still love Yuuri. Deeply."

"Well, that will sweeten the pill for sure," Chulanont replied, with a forced cheerful tone. He fished an envelope from his pocket. "This is a letter from Yuuri to Victor. He must have it." 

Chulanont scooted to the edge of the sofa, putting down his cup, as if with the letter delivery he had ended all reasons to be there. Aleksey took it and passed back to Alina with the request to place it on his desk, in full view. Victor couldn't receive letters in prison, but he would soon face the matter. 

"Which prison?" Chulanont exclaimed, "Yuuri will want to know it, I'm sure."

"Petropavlovskaya. The Fortress of Peter and Paul," Aleksey answered, doubting still his host could comprehend the meaning behind that name. "Trutbetskoi Bastion."

"And how is he? Yuuri will want to know this too."

"This I cannot answer. I haven't seen Vitya since September. Before he was fine, though sad. Now I know why."

Phichit Chulanont was already arranging to take his leave, wrapping a too-light coat for the cold Russian winter around his body, when he asked, "Why have the police arrested him? How bad it it?"

"He expressed disappointment in the government," Aleksey said. "And our judicial system is capricious. I'm sorry I cannot give Yuuri false hopes," he added, for how much he would've wished for the contrary. He offered for Chulanont to stay for dinner, which the man refused in the name of a series of practices he needed to attend out of the country. Aleksey could only wish him a safe travel.

Later, alone, he debated with himself on what to do with Yuuri’s letter. It felt wrong to read it, like he was snooping in the private life of two lovers, but at the same time it was important for him to do it. There was no other way for Vitya to learn what was written inside. He was holding something for which his son had longed for so long, built his hopes upon. Something that carried the only voice Victor wished to hear now. 

Aleksey cut the envelope open.

***

 

"So?"

Yuuri had his hands curled for dear life around a cup of chamomile. Phichit had insisted on preparing it before saying a single word, which couldn't be a good sign in the slightest. At least, seeing Phichit walking through their apartment door had melted away part of the tension which had tormented Yuuri since accompanying his friend to the station; but still, that silence was unnerving.

"What is it, Phichit?" he insisted, tightening his grip on the cup. If Phichit was hesitating, it could only mean bad news was about to come.

Yuuri wasn't sure he’d be able to accept them. During Phichit's absence he had repeated he would be ready, come what may, but now his will was shaking. A dreadful image filled his mind, so much he pronounced the following question with a feeble voice, fearing words could become reality if said out loud. "He isn't dead, right?" Because calming brews and an order to sit down were usually reserved for people bound to receive news of a death.

"Dear gods, no," Phichit hastened to deny. "He's alive and, according to his father, he still loves you deeply."

Yuuri furrowed his brow. If Victor was alive, why had Phichit had to talk with Aleksey Nikiforov? Unless... Yuuri's mind tried to force the thought out. 

Yet, he was determined to face the truth in all its ugliness, whatever it was.

"Why? Why you didn't talk with him?" Letting go of the cup, he grabbed the edge of the table, like a castaway preparing for new waves to strike while at sea. 

"He wasn’t home. He has been arrested." 

The wave fell, cold and unforgiving, swarming over Yuuri with the first hint of a panic attack. He dug nails into the wood to keep it at bay. Now wasn't the time to subside to it. It wouldn't be of any help and he must be strong. Almost as if he had perceived his master's anguish, Vicchan came to brush against Yuuri's thighs, yawning awake from his nap. 

It never failed to amaze Yuuri how the puppy’s simple presence, how feeling his soft and little body under his trembling hands, helped his heart to not beat too fast and his breath to keep even. A sick sweat covered his palms, but his mind maintained lucid.

"Where? Where have they taken him?"

"Petro-something." Phichit’s tongue tripped on the foreign word. "A fortress. Ah, yes. St. Peter and Paul fortress."

Yuuri didn't need to see his face in the mirror to know the expression of defeat painted on it - defeat and recognition. "Petropavlovskaya."

"You know it?"

"Everyone in St. Petersburg knows it. Like everyone here knows the Tower."

Oleg Vladimirovič had told him everything about the fortress on the other side of the Neva, during one of the days of exploration across town after having arrived in St. Petersburg. It had been a long travel, months across the vastness of Russia, seeing the land blooming in a profusion of little flowers, snow melting in greenish swamps, and freezing again. 

The Fortress of St. Peter and Paul was several things: a palace, a grave for the members of the imperial family, a prison. Somewhere within those thick walls, Peter the Great had disposed of his rebel son. It was enough for the people to watch the bastion and feel a sense of almost sacred terror. After years rotting in cells where sun never shone, katorga in Siberia became the promised land.

"This is bad," Yuuri reprised, his voice choked at the back of his throat. The banality of the sentence was almost funny, had it been the time for some laughter. But it wasn't; not when Victor was in a terrifying prison, waiting for a trial that, if Yuuri had learnt anything about how justice worked in Russia, would be gods knew when. Yuuri's lower lip quivered, but he bit it hard, until he tasted blood, to impede the tears from falling.

Strangely, the picture of Victor's bedroom flashed before his eyes, still impressed in his memory for how much Yuuri had studied it in at when he was trying his best not to indulge in watching Victor's half-naked body several months ago. The more he recalled that picture, the more the furniture changed; the soft canopy bed became a cot; the window with cornflower blue curtains a barred loophole; the cream-coloured vanity a rattled small desk. The idea of Victor - the city’s darling, Mariinsky best danseur - locked in jail, was absurd.

"Why?"

"Something about speaking against the government, I think," Phichit promptly supplied.

It suited Victor not having a filter between his brain and his mouth, or so Yuuri had known him, seeing the real face behind the smile he reserved for the public of balletomanes. He pinched his nose between thumb and index, right between his eyes, where a subtle headache was beginning to bloom. 

"When?"

"September."

Yuuri had arrived in London in September. Yet, Victor had stopped writing in May and Yuuri still didn't know what had happened in between. Phichit answered that as well.

A tiny laugh, high like a hiccup, shook Yuuri's body. This time he couldn’t keep his lip from trembling. 

His eyes became wet with tears he still wasn’t sure were hysterical or simply sad. For months Vitya had tried to write to him. How could Yuuri ever doubt his good faith?

He was a bit offended Victor had not recognized his presumed letters were a forgery, but he had to admit he would do the same. After months of nothing, if anyone had given him a letter claiming it was from Victor, Yuuri would've believed it without a second thought.

Yuuri's fingers knead his temples, with an impending headache as every piece slot into position. He dug his nails into his skin and a new piece added to the others, the biggest, so big it had come unnoticed at first. 

Yuuri's life in London had been quiet enough, apart from occasional breakdowns, he had almost forgotten there was a document, somewhere in the Okhrana offices, with his name, his data, and some lines indicating him as a spy. It didn't take a chessmaster to understand Victor's connection with him could only worsen his situation.

"I need to do something," Yuuri eventually said. Phichit, who had gotten up to prepare another cup of tea, remained silent. Yuuri was grateful for it.

Ten minutes later the tea was of the right temperature to drink, Vicchan had run away to play with Phichit's hamsters, and Yuuri was reasoning on every detail he could remember from that day he flew from St. Petersburg in an attempt to determine how he could clear his name.

It had all begun with the letters.

Altin was convinced the Okhrana believed Yuuri has been sending secret information with the letters he wrote for Mari. It was an absurdity that made Yuuri wonder when he could have found the time to spy, with Mariinsky’s training schedule. Other questions often followed. First and foremost was why the Okhrana hadn't acted earlier, because Yuuri was now sure they have been observing him for a long time, way before the war started. Probably, if the war hadn't happened, the Okhrana would have continued to observe, take notes and references. The conflict had changed everything in the span of a day, turning Yuuri in one of the others, one of the enemies, the yellow monkey; making the Okhrana act abnormally fast.

A yelp interrupted his train of thought. Vicchan had jumped off Yuuri's thighs to scrape at the door with his tiny pawns, tails wagging, begging to be taken outside.

"Do you want to come?" Yuuri asked Phichit as he clasped the leash to the collar.

"Maybe another time." Phichit suffocated a yawn into his closed fist. 

Walking under the freezing December rain, wrapped in a thick trench coat, curled under a fragile umbrella, wasn't paradise. Yet, it proved wonderful for thinking, ideas unrolling as Vicchan jumped around and Yuuri burnt kilometres, heading down on the street leading from Bethnal Green to Poplar. 

Returning to Russia to clear his name was out of the question, a suicide by any other name. They would capture him long before he could see St. Petersburg. Even if he could manage to arrive in town safe and sound, it would be useless without something more than his own word to prove his innocence. The rain was getting heavier, lead-grey, falling from the useless umbrella onto his shoulders, sliding down in the crook of his elbow. It entered in the space between his coat collar and neck, soaking him to the bone. 

He needed some concrete evidence, the thing that caused this avalanche in the first place: the letters for Mari. Convincing someone to actually read and translate them into Russian, or making sure they would be accepted as material to be examined by a court, was easier said than done. Yet, it was all Yuuri had. He wished Japan wasn't on the other side of the globe.

Letters between Europe and Japan took at least a month to arrive, granted an effective and error-free postal system. Though the system was generally reliable, the possibility of the letters getting lost somewhere on the way from Hasetsu to London was something to consider. . Maybe the safest move was to go to Hasetsu and take the letters himself.

The idea slowed Yuuri's pace until his feet stopped and he stood there, in his soaked trench coat, contemplating how pleasant would it be to return home. He could take a pause, eat some of the local foods he still missed, ask for advice without having to wait for weeks before receiving an answer.

The image of Victor deteriorating in a cell came to ruin the picture, in an almost accusatory manner. If only there was a way to send a message quicker than a letter.

Yuuri slammed a hand against his forehead. He was so used to the dear, old letters, he had forgotten about telegrams. 

***

YUTOPIA KATSUKI

HASETSU (JAP)

SEND ME ALL LETTERS I SENT YOU STOP

URGENT STOP

In the following days, he also wrote a longer letter in which he explained the reason for his request. He assured Mari he was doing fine, despite his feeling anything but, and thanked her for the birthday present, which he had managed to fix with the right dose of patience and craftsmanship.

Now, all he could do was wait and hope.

 

***

It was Christmas week when the prison authorities allowed visitors, a choice Victor supposed was a sign of Christian goodness and benevolence. In honour of the special occasion, he had been provided for once with a decent razor to shave, lukewarm water to wash properly, and clean clothes.

He combed his fringe away with his fingers, the grown out tufts tickling against his skin. When he passed his tongue on his upper lip, it was dry and chapped. 

"Hi, papa," he said when his father's solid figure appeared on the other side of the prison bars. The guard on duty turned the key within the lock. A sonorous click echoed through the cell, causing Victor's breath to catch in his throat.

Aleksey dragged Victor in a hug before saying anything, a gesture which turmoiled Victor deep inside, after months deprived of human contact. He found himself snuggling against his father's shoulder as if he was still a kid in need of cuddles after a nightmare. 

"I'm sorry for all this mess," he murmured once the hug was broken, catching the tears lingering at the corner of his eyes with the back of his fingers. The last surviving light chestnut hair on his father's head had turned grey.

"It's not your fault," his father shushed him. "Happy late birthday."

"Thanks. Did you bring me a present?" he deadpanned.

"Better. I've news for you."

"Good news?" Victor replied, his voice tingling with hope.

In truth, he wasn't completely ignorant of the outside world thanks to a small and clever exchange he managed to secure with one guard, who provided him with blurb of a newspaper, rolled and smuggled with the ability of a magician, in exchange for the little tobacco prisoners could buy. 

After hastily reading the news clippings, he would swallow them so as to not leave any traces.

"Yes." Aleksey inclined his head slightly to turn away from the guard. "News from Yuuri."

A flood of emotion swarmed over Victor from those few words, hope and worry, excitement and disbelief all mixing together until his head was dizzy and nausea blossomed at the back of his mouth. He pressed both hands against his lips, corners lifting in a little smile, despite all. God had given an answer to his prayers.

"What news? Is he well? Does he still ..."

_Love me_ , he wanted to ask, but the question died in his throat. It left almost a bitter taste in Victor's mouth and a feeling of embarrassment in his stomach, born from the awareness of having done something wrong. With everything that was happening, inquiring about Yuuri's feelings for him was silly at best and egotistical at worst. 

"Yes. He's alive and fine, in a safe place. He wrote you a letter." 

Victor grabbed his father's hands. "What did he say?" he pressed, praying his father knew enough about the prohibition of bringing letters inside the prison to turn a blind eye in the name of love. 

"He's worried about you and your silence. He fears you wish to have nothing with him anymore, but he prays you give him a clear refusal. He still loves you deeply."

Once again nausea took over Victor’s senses, so strongly he could feel the sickness manifested in his throat, slipping between his fingers. The pavement rolled underneath his feet, as if he was standing on a boat being tossed by the ocean’s furious waves.

The image only made the ill feeling worse, forcing Victor to bend over to find some relief; but it was useless when the pain was in his mind and not his body.

From Yuuri's perspective, he had stopped writing without much of an explanation, leaving behind nothing but weeks of silence; it was a fertile terrain for doubts to blossom. He himself had had them, despite everything, when he heard the suspicions against Yuuri for the first time, the obscure part of his brain caressing the possibility everything Yuuri did was a lie. He still felt the shame for having so little faith in the person he claimed to love.

"Did you tell him it isn't like that? Please, tell me you did," Victor urged.

"Of course I did."

Victor sighed in relief, leaning on his side until his head rested on Aleksey's shoulder. Some people would consider the behaviour inappropriate, judging the physical expression of affection between a father and a son after a certain age. Victor knew about people who had never received so much as a caress or a kiss on the forehead as a goodnight from their parents.

"Papa?" he muttered. "Do you think they would allow me to bring Makkachin with me if I'm sent to Siberia?"

He had to cough out the last word. The terrible sound of it hadn't died yet, that a new surge of guilt burnt behind his eyes.

He should’ve fought harder to bring Makkachin with him when he had gone to Paris. He could repeat excuses, claiming the landlady of the apartment his father had found for him didn't accept animals, or that Makkachin would be left alone too long to be happy. In the end, however, they were only pathetic and useless efforts to justify leaving the dog behind. He should've found another way.

"I don't think he'll survive." Aleksey's answer only cemented Victor's regret. 

"What about Yuuri? Would he accept to live there for me? I cannot ask him," Victor insisted with a voice rising too much for his own liking. All he wanted was for someone to appear and say it had all been a mistake, to go home and spend the day on the couch, Makkachin on one side and Yuuri at the other. He would dance to his heart content.

"I think he will," his father said in a soft, thoughtful tone, before changing subject abruptly. "A month ago Prince Gorchakov offered to help us if you married the eldest Princess."

"You refused, I hope," Victor exclaimed without pondering the possibility a second more.

The thought made him recoil, the prospect worse than any other possible punishment. It would break Yuuri's heart and by the time Victor could explain the situation, it would be too late. 

"Certainly," Aleksey confirmed. "I'm going to take you out from here," he added when the visiting hour came to a too-soon, too-abrupt ending, hugging him one last time. 

Once alone again, the new emptiness made Victor wish the meeting had never happened.

***

Some days later, the Imperial guards at the Winter Palace shot at a crowd of peaceful protesters lead by priest Georgi Gabon, shaking the already unsteady Russian Empire from its roots. 

If it hadn’t been for a few newspaper lines, carefully smuggled as usual, Victor wouldn’t have known about it for weeks, if not months. It wasn't a subject about which people could stay silent, but the Petropavlovskaya wardens belonged to a special category, their mouth always shut as if their life depended on silence.

"This will be the last time," the guard with whom Victor had made his small deal whispered, not moving his lips, before leaving. The day after a new one arrived to substitute him. It must be because of a normal rotation between guards, a total normal relocation; but deep down Victor couldn’t fight completely the conviction the guard had been punished because of him. A surprise inspection soon after cemented the belief, ten excruciatingly long minutes during which Victor could only plaster on the best of his submissive smiles.

It took Victor a single glance to the new guard to understand it was better not to repeat the bribe with him. 

***

The news about the Bloody Sunday were too big to be contained. It spewed cross the border, bouncing from mouth to mouth in a growing cry of protest, until Yuuri read it, still warm and fresh. He was at the Adelphi Theatre for rehearsals, the whole of Celestino’s company minus Leo scattered around the room.

The theatre activity was going better than expected and provided also a distraction for Yuuri's mind from what was happening in St. Petersburg. He had informed Chris about Victor's arrest in a short letter, as Chris was Victor's best friend and deserved to know what had happened.

"Yuuri, you should read this," Phichit called from the door, holding a rolled newspaper, which he soon lent over to Yuuri. 

Yuuri skimmed over the article, filling with instinct the blanks left by words he still didn't know, trying to maintain a dispassionate perspective on it; easier said than done, as the hope nobody he knew was involved grew at every sentence.

The shooting, according to the recap, had happened at eleven in the morning, when most people were still at church or home. But it wasn't enough to reassure him, for there were always the exceptions -- those who found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time. There was no way to know for sure that Yuri or his friend, Altin, weren't in the march following father Gabon, believing it was their duty to support those who suffered most in their protest against the government.

In all its irony, a part of his mind was grateful for the first time for knowing Victor was in prison, not involved in the shooting in the slightest.

Telling himself none of his friends or acquaintances were among the casualties offered little consolation. It didn't change the corpses left on the street, their blood staining the already dirty snow. What kind of Emperor left his town in the moment of need, leaving behind guards who didn't know better than to fire on innocent people when things started to go out of hand?

The numbers may be inflated, the truth hidden behind some newspaper rhetoric; still, in the end, the fact was always the same.

"Is everything alright?" Phichit called.

Yuuri blinked to readjust his focus from reading to the surrounding ambiences, pushing his glasses back onto his nose. 

"Not really," he admitted. It couldn’t be when innocent people had been killed.

Guang-Hong, sprawled across two row of seats over, asked out loud what in the article had bothered Yuuri. He promptly answered by tossing the newspaper in his direction. In the span of few minutes everybody had read it, including Seung-Gil, who either didn’t know much English or only pretend not to. It was difficult to tell. it wasn't yet clear if he didn't know English or if he pretended. 

"That's horrible," Guang-Hong muttered. The discussion blossomed soon after. Among the possible contrasting opinions, no one dared to say the episode would never happen in civilized England. Immigrants from the east quickly learned, thanks to the color of skin, the true face the British Empire hid under its silky surface. Some, like Guang-Hong, had had a direct taste; others had merely read about an episode that happened in London, similar to the St. Petersburg one, only a few decades earlier. 

***

January was gloomy. February would’ve been as well, if it hadn’t been for a package containing every single letter Yuuri had sent to Mari in the last six years. 

They were all there, from the old ones when he was still a lost young boy in St. Petersburg to the last, sent from London. Some of them had smeared ink for having been read or touched too many times, passed from hand to hand. Yuuri could easily imagine his whole family gathering around Mari to peer over her shoulder or Mari reading them out loud for the all of Yu-topia to hear. Mari would run to Minako at the temple, rushing up the hill, envelope in hand.

One letter smelled of sea and sand, another had a spot of tea on the top corner. The oldest had absorbed that typical smell of home Yuuri's brain still remembered, frying oil and wax for wood and seaside water.

_Dear brother,_

_I wish you had given a more elaborate explanation than a brief telegram, but I trust more details will come in time._

_I, however, want to let you know I nearly boarded a ship to check on you myself. Unfortunately - or luckily, I guess it depends on points of view - the amount of work here does not allow me to leave without damaging the business._

_We recently had another little group of Russian officers as guests. They, too, were from a nearby prison camp, but they were new faces._

_One exhibited extremely rude and inappropriate behaviour, but Minako put him back into line. Apart from this unfortunate exception, the others were quite nice, for what one can expect from these gaikokoujin [2]. I believe you had direct proof, more than me for sure, of how loud and sometimes even embarrassing they can be, especially after a glass too much._

_Overall, still, I must say they are pretty innocuous. It is truly strange to think these same men had probably killed our own on some distant battlefield._

_I told the people at the post office how important this packet and its content are for you, thus I hope it will be in your hands as soon as possible. Please, let me know if it has arrived._

_Here, we miss you all very much._

_Love,_

_Your sister_

As Yuuri flipped through the letters, he realized it had been a year since the beginning of the war; a year since he had left St. Petersburg. It had been a year since the last time he saw Victor. 

He choked back his tears, for he had more pressing matters to deal with. On the top of the list was choosing the best and safest way to get the letters into Aleksey Nikiforov’s hands. 

Yuuri’s mind brooded on the matter for all the following days. On several occasions, Phichit had to snap his fingers right under his nose to prevent him from spacing out in the middle of rehearsing. 

Yuuri’s pantomime of the Coppelia had long entered the usual repertoire, to the audience’s amusement and delight, but Mr. Cialdini had insisted on adding a bit of variety in the usual routine before the public could get bored. It had been a month since Phichit had attempted to teach him some jugglery tricks, and Yuuri had to admit he wasn’t as helpless as he believed at the beginning. 

He couldn't focus that day, though.

"What is it?" Phichit insisted when the cane Yuuri had thrown in a spiral towards the ceiling almost hit him on the nose. Once Yuuri had explained the problem, he shrugged as if it wasn't an issue. 

"Leave it to me," Phichit affirmed. "I have the documents, I can leave tonight. I could have left yesterday if you told me earlier."

"Celestino won't let you go."

"Celestino doesn't mind as long as there's something to substitute me. Which you'll do."

"It's too dangerous." Yuuri shook his head. Phichit going to the same city after a relatively short span of time will raise questions, especially in the tense climate that had followed the Bloody Sunday. Newspapers discussed unrest in the whole of Russia, towns suffering by intense strikes, people demanding more rights at the top of their lungs. One wrong move or one wrong word and Phichit may got caught in that net as well. 

"I'm asking Chris," he said out loud, hoping La Scala’s schedule to be more flexible than what he suspected. But Chris was Victor's best friend, he would for sure have all the interests to help him. He had shown the deepest concern in his response to Yuuri's message about the latest news.

_I have read your words over and over, and yet I find it difficult to believe them. I would say it is nothing but a joke, if I believed you the type to make light of the worst of life._

_I admit I wish I had never helped Vitya in courting you. He would've eventually gotten over you, survived his enamorment before it could blossom in full love, and none of this would have happened._

_That is, until I remember how happy he was when I left St. Petersburg, as I have not seen him in a long time, and it was all thanks to you. [...]_

_He is softer than what he seems, though I trust you may have already seen this side of him. My point is, he would not be in prison if it had not been for you. I am not accusing you, mind you, but make sure you have this clear in your mind. He was and is ready to sacrifice everything he had for you. Never forget it._

As if he could ever. Yuuri carded his fingers through his hair as he muttered to himself.

It would take too long, between sending a message to Milan and waiting for Chris to come to London to retrieve the letters. Yuuri also doubted he would have the right documents at the ready. There was no reason for Chris to have his passport viséd when he had no intention to go to Russia anytime soon. 

Even with a telegram, admitting Chris would be ready to leave at once, it would always be a day too long. 

Yuuri inhaled with his hands on his diaphragm, muscles tensed in response to his needs to weigh the risks and rewards of both possibilities. 

He could discard safety for quickness or he could cling to patience and stay on solid ground. He had been patient for too long now, each time repeating everything would settle if only he had waited a day more. It had only made things worse. 

"You sure you can leave tonight?" 

"Or tomorrow morning. I'll take the first train," Phichit assured. 

"Fine." Yuuri hung his head in the defeat. It didn't save Phichit from an endless list of recommendations from there to the station to afternoon after.

"Don't stand out too much," he insisted on the platform. "Better to keep silent about politics."

Yuuri showered Phichit with every piece of advice he could think of, a defense against any possible worst case scenario -- at least until Phichit shut the window in his face after insisting, "Trust me, it'll be fine."

***

 

Victor's trial was scheduled for the end of April. Victor, despite being the person involved, was informed about it only two weeks prior. The news came from his father’s mouth during one of their rare visits.

"It would kill the tension," he had huffed.

They could as well have waited up to the latest day, to underline how lost he was supposed to feel. The date of the trial was forbidden knowledge, and Aleksey had had to mime it with fingers; one hand for the month, the other for the day. 

Prisoners, regardless of their social status, could wait for years before being conceded the grace of standing before a judge. Apparently, the lawyer Aleksey had assumed for Victor had a silver-tongue. Being a motormouth, he had convinced those in charge that Victor's case was a matter to be easily and quickly solved. 

To him, Aleksey had also trusted the bundle of letters he had found at his doorstep only a few weeks ago. They were all filled with unreadable kanji. A single more in a familiar and slightly ungrammatical Russian accompanied them. 

_These are the letters I used to send to my sister at home. I would have translated them, but I believe people would say I was lying. I know it is not much, but they are the best evidence I can offer on my innocence. I trust they will be of some help_

_Yuuri K._

"He hasn’t forgotten about you," Aleksey said, kissing Victor on the forehead when the visit hour came to an end. "Soon this will be over."

The hopeful smile Victor had worn during the visit faltered as soon as his father turned the corner. It left space to endless doubts.

He pressed his hands against his forehead to prevent the negative images from exploding.

The motifs behind his arrest, the pretext and the real core of the problem, they all twirled in his mind, in a never-ending farandole.

Some people would say it was better to prepare for the worst outcome, and in part he did. But more and more, it was easier said than done. Thinking about the worst possibilities only terrified him, the biting of ice from katorga on the most extreme sides of the Empire, or the heaviness of an immediate death sentence. 

No. He couldn't let himself fall prey to negative thoughts. He must believe everything would work out, Yuuri's innocence proven, his own mistakes forgiven or blandly chastised, the war ended.

The door cell cracked open. A rush of cold air ran through the room, bringing relief from the constant, muggy heat. 

A guard stood at the door, one hand hidden behind his back, the other carrying the tray for dinner. He was tall and muscular. In a normal occasion, Victor wouldn't have been worried by the guard’s size, but months in an unhealthy cell had weakened him. His muscles weren't as strong as they used to be. In recent days he also felt a bit of fever behind his eyes, probably because of the stress and the tiredness. To make matters worse, his endless days in isolation was messing with his mind. He could feel nervous and paranoia seeping in. 

Before he could say anything, the guard closed the door cell behind his back. 

Victor didn't like the way he looked at him one bit. He stood up from the bed, his movements slow and weary, like an animal about to fall into a trap.

"What's the matter?" he asked, eyes glancing from the door to the cell walls, as a terrible feeling mounted up in his guts. Never had a guard lingered so long after brining dinner. Often, they didn't even enter the cell.

He gulped, but still refrained from backing up against the wall. That would trap him for good. With muscles tensed to prevent them from trembling, a thought crept into his mind, the terrible scenario of a good-looking man in a position of weakness. 

"What do you want," he demanded again, almost baring his teeth in a growl. Fear had destroyed any delicacy from his features, years of training his face to show only the right emotion gone in an instant of flight or fight instinct. The stress had long erased any trace of smoothness from his voice. The idea, the simple fear of violence, was enough to ignite his will to fight. If the guard believed he could do as he pleased, he would have a unpleasant surprise.

Or maybe he had no bad intentions at all and paranoia was distorting reality. 

As an answer, the guard posed the tray on the bed only to reveal what he was keeping hidden behind his back, a small but still dangerous crowbar.

Fear mounted in Victor’s guts... no, it was only paranoia speaking. It was only a fruit of his imagination, the tiredness and the heat. 

He didn't back against the wall yet. Not that it wouldn't make any difference. In his current state, he wasn’t a match for the guard and he knew no one would come to help him, if the voice to scream hadn’t already died in his throat. He hoped his father was still around the corner.

A punch to his temple scattered the ranting of his scared mind, Victor's weak attempt to avoid it all but futile. He fell down hard. The guard pinned him down on the ground. Victor prayed the crowbar was only for scene, for scaring.

He raised his arm, crowbar in hand. In a last attempt, Victor gathered up his strength to roll on the side, but his head felt dizzy and he could barely move. He saw the guard's eyes watching his leg, a point near the knee. 

He wished he could stop time.

The crowbar came down hard, biting into the flesh, aiming at the bone. Shock took the pain away, but not the horror. Before Victor could understand what had happened, the bar struck again, on the same point, going deeper each time. 

It moved, lower, hitting relentlessly, until the white of bone peered from under the read of meat; and the pain became too much, stealing the voice from Victor's mouth. He hadn’t realized he was screaming. The guard paused as if he was considering something, before he struck the bar right on Victor’s foot. Victor screamed louder. 

It wasn't happening. This wasn't real. A guard wasn't beating his leg before his eyes, destroying his passion, his career, his reason to live all in one. The blood didn't exist, nor the gash in the skin and muscle nor the glimpse of white. That was only a hallucination from a fever of which he hadn't been aware. All he had to do was to squeeze his eyes shut and he would wake up in his bed, at home, where everyone loved and protected him, where he still had a strong leg and could dance to his heart content. 

His eyelids went heavy, as the beating and the blood loss drove him to the point of exhaustion, his body traversed by aftershock trembling, his skin glistening with sick sweat. The last thing he heard was the guard closing the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Do you speak French  
> [2]Not Japanese people
> 
> * Arrive four months later with a Starbuck *
> 
> Dear, I’ve written this chapter almost a year ago and what I wanted to say, I have forgotten. I apology for the delay in the uploading schedule, but between Halloween and Christmas holiday and the usual real life always present to disrupt the plans, full months have passed.
> 
> The final scene was both one of the original pillars of the whole story and the one that made me suffer the most. For months I’ve bothered my betas (and not only them) on how to write if, where to put it, if put it at all. Was it too much? Too little?  
> In the end, I thought some old good angst and some self-indulgence were the best things to do.
> 
> Positive note, this has been the darkest chapter. The three still left will focus on the healing and will move to the third and last story arc. There will still be some angst, but nothing as bad as this.
> 
> It’s extremely subtle, but “a rush of cold air” is a quote to “The Opera” from “Natasha, Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812”. Or, in my mind, that is the association.
> 
> Now, for some thanks. The usual triad of [ Curlavski](http://curlavski.tumblr.com), [ Dev_Writes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dev_Writes) and [ rogovich](https://rogovich.tumblr.com)
> 
> Shout out also to [ sheikofthesheikah](http://sheikofthesheikah.tumblr.com), to whom I asked info about injuries in the early 20th century and who provided a precious help.
> 
> I created a discord channel for me to chat (and rant) with people ( about writing and art (mostly writing). You can consider it as a big DVD commentary on what I write, the random thoughts during the writing process, the writing advices I consider useful. There are also deleted scenes from CEE and snippets from future chapters and other projects. 
> 
> If you are interested, you can join [here](https://discord.gg/fHzDsFT). I promise I don’t bite
> 
> As always my ask box, mail, DM, whatever is always open. Come to say hello at [ gwen-chan](http://gwen-chan.tumblr.com)  
> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * Constructive criticism
>   * <3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> The author replies to comments
> 
> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I’m reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example), feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!“

**Author's Note:**

> [1]Our Mila. I like the headcanon of her full name being Ljudmila (of which Mila is a diminutive). Ljuda is only another diminutive.  
> [2]A fancy street in St. Petersburg  
> [3]Russian money. 100 Kopek make a ruble  
> [4]Zakuski (plural) is a Slavic term for hot and cold hors d'oeuvres, entrées and snacks, either as a course as it is or "intended to follow each shot of vodka or another alcoholic drink." The word literally means something to bite after [Definition courtesy of wikipedia]  
> [5] The highest male rank in the old ballet hierarchy (note that the term “ètoile” (star) was used only by the Paris Opera). A danseur noble traditionally was a male ballet dancer who projected great nobility of character. Over the last century the term has been used to define a male principal dancer who performs at the highest theatrical level combining grace with ability [Definition courtesy of wikipedia]  
> [6] A place selling fine foodstuff and providing also an eating space, usually for lunch  
> [7]Traditional fruit confectionery. In Imperial Russia they were often served with tea  
> [8]Yuuri is talking about the Vaganova Ballet Academy, which in pre-Soviet Russia was known as “Imperial Theatre School” and was the school associated with Mariinsky theatre
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
>  
> 
> Oh, dear, I’m finally posting the first chapter of this new project. It’s so exciting. I mean, I’ve been working on it since August and if it hadn’t been for my betas’ careful watch, I would’ve updated it way earlier. But perfection requires time, so I kept calm.
> 
> A big, “from-the-moon-and-back” thank you to my betas, [ Artsdefine05](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artdefines06/pseuds/Artdefines06) and [ Curlavski](http://curlavski.tumblr.com), who are always available to listen me ranting about plot-holes, infodumps, characterisation or, in general, how hard writing can be. All while providing indispensable information and insights.  
> A huge thanks also to [ rogovich](https://rogovich.tumblr.com), an extremely precious resource for all things Russian. She also has more patience than I deserve.
> 
> Talking about schedule and update, I have both good and bad news. The good news is that I’ve written up to now five chapters, so I have some backup material. The bad news is I cannot assure a methodic update schedule due to having to coordinate between three people IRL and time zones. In general I’m aiming to post a chapter every 2 or 3 weeks. Still, I highly recommend you to click that subscribe button so that you won’t miss any update  
> About the length, while I still haven’t figured out how many chapter this will have, I suppose no less than 10 and no more than 12 (but we’ll see in time).
> 
> I’ve tried to maintain the best historical accuracy possible, but I’ve also taken some liberties here and there in regards to ballet uses at the time (roles, auditions, etc). Consider that, while I’ve always been fascinated by ballet, my knowledge of it prior starting doing research for the fanfic was very low. Still, being this a fanfic and not an academic essay, I hope you can enjoy it nonetheless.  
> If you, like me, are fascinated by ballet, but get lost in all the technical terminology, you can check [ here](https://ballethub.com/ballet-terms-dictionary) for a useful dictionary and [ here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zQl78gCPHxs&list=PL7E40E6E2DAB561B5) for a visual representation of the principal ballet steps.
> 
> The universe in which the fanfic is set is pretty much the same as the canon YOI, so homophobia is not a thing. There are however “blink and you miss it” hint to xenophobia (especially the “yellow peril” issue) and gender inequality. Be warned that from chapter 5 on the story will take a darker turn and angst will increase. 
> 
> Last but not least, the fanfic title is french for “crossed, separated, intertwined”. Each name is also a ballet step. 
> 
> Needless to say, comments and kudos are extremely appreciated. This author is a simple being in needs of validation and accept anything, from an emoji to a essay-long comment. If you feel like you cannot comment in english due to a language barrier, comment in your mother tongue. I will squeal in happiness.  
> Too shy to comment on AO3? Hit me at “gwen-chan.tumblr.com” where my ask box and direct chat are always open.


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